born and raised in appleton, wisconsin, jon barber has...
TRANSCRIPT
A Portrait of the Author as a Young Man:A Brief Sketch of Jon Barber, By Zach Willis
Born and raised in Appleton, Wisconsin, Jon Barber has always been fascinated by
technology. Whether surfing the Internet, writing programs, playing games, or typing papers for
English classes, Jon’s passion for computers has persisted. This interest has been paramount in
his life since he first enrolled at St. Matthew Lutheran Grade School, and progressed during the
time he spent at Fox Valley Lutheran High School. During his grade school years, Jon also
developed an interest in reading. Classic literature has continued to captivate Jon throughout his
life, and he appreciates that English classes have offered an opportunity to create an even deeper
connection between himself and the literature by writing about the ideas he has gleaned from his
readings. Naturally, when it came time for Jon to look toward life beyond school, he
immediately set his sights upon incorporating his passions into his vision for the future.
Upon entering St. Norbert College, Jon knew that his future was going to center around
his two passions: technology and literature. Because of his strong interest in technology, Jon
decided to become a Computer Science major, but to supplement that degree he chose to minor
in English, which would allow him to pursue his interest in literature and writing. Since arriving
at SNC, Jon has also able to pursue his interests by becoming an active member of both the
Computer Science Club and Film Club on campus. During a recent “48 Hour Film Festival” put
on by the Club, Jon contributed his own short film, entitled Alone in the Dark, which focused on
the process of writing a paper. One sincerely hopes that the central character, a habitual
procrastinator who puts off writing an important paper until the last minute, is not an exact
representation of Jon himself. Even if this character is less of an exaggeration that we would like
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to think, however, it certainly does not show. Each of Jon’s essays provide keen insights and
show an obvious devotion to creating thorough, well-written papers.
Jon’s first essay, a close reading of Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw, provides an
interesting perspective on the main character, a governess who, according to Jon, wreaks havoc
upon the estate and all those who dwell in it due, oddly enough, to her excessive displays of
affection. Jon asks: “Is it possible to love someone too much?” According to his analysis, the
governess is guilty of this charge, thereby creating a complex but well-argued thesis for his
essay. His unique insight, which reads into the often vague and ambiguous nature of James ’s
text, provides a fresh and quite interesting perspective on this oft-discussed ghost story.
In his essay on Chopin’s The Awakening, Jon accomplishes the difficult task of creating a
male-authored, yet feminist-leaning, paper. Jon readily admits the difficulties he had in
removing his own biased masculine viewpoint during his initial reading of the novel in order to
replace it with a better understanding of Chopin’s goals as a feminist. This self-reflective essay
provides concrete evidence of Jon’s considerable gifts as a writer, as he gives his audience a feel
for the struggles he went through in coming to terms with Edna Pontellier’s awakening to
independent womanhood.
Jon is also quite proud of his abstract, summary, and evaluation of two articles
concerning the presentation of literature in the classroom. A considerable amount of time must
have gone into Jon’s reviewing of the articles, as his abstract and summary are both very well
written; his inclusion of key details combined with his ability to provide the information in a
concise yet understandable way is a testament to his devotion to a thorough understanding of the
articles. However, Jon’s evaluation is what he takes the most pride in. His prior analysis of
“Taking Cover in Coverage” provides a firm foundation for his educated response, in which he
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refutes many of Graff’s suggestions. With sound arguments and solid proof, Jon is able to
provide a clear analysis of the shortcomings of Graff’s proposals. The composition of this
detailed evaluation must have consumed much of Jon’s time, but the effort paid off in the end, as
this is likely one of his finest accomplishments.
The final addition to Jon’s portfolio is his New Historical essay. The Catcher in the Rye
has fascinated Jon ever since he first read the novel back in high school, but it was the endless
references to the work that he noticed throughout American popular cultural in the years since
which convinced Jon that a historical analysis of the book could prove interesting. His essay
pays close attention to how Salinger’s work has impacted society since its publication in 1951.
Since his arrival on the literary scene, Holden Caulfield has become one of the most important
fictional characters of the past fifty years, and he continues to speak to future generations. In this
intriguing paper, Jon attempts to trace the ways in which Holden has affected society in the past
decades, as well as to explain why he remains so popular to this very day.
As Jon begins to again look to the future, with graduation now only a year away, he
hopes to find a career that will allow him to continue to pursue his technological and literary
passions. Jon plans on discovering a position in the computing field which will allow him to also
implement the writing skills he has garnered during his time at St. Norbert College. He feels that
writing is absolutely vital as a form of communication; whether that interaction is written or
verbal, Jon knows that his English minor will help him to express himself intelligently in any
future business environment. Furthermore, the profound analytical abilities that Jon has gained
will allow him to better evaluate anything that might be placed before him in his life after
college, whether it be a work of literature, a business proposal, or even a computer program.
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Enjoying the Ride:Avoiding Platitudes on the Road to Self-Reflection
The act of creating an essay necessarily entails a long and arduous process which
unfailingly grants me no shortage of mental and physical anguish. I just wanted to make that
clear from the outset. Now, that being said, my decision to pursue an English minor is a choice
which, quite clearly, will require a good deal of explanation. Let us see if I can provide a
convincing analysis of my own thought process in this regard.
To begin, let me simply state that I love to read. From Shakespeare to Tolkien to Stephen
King, there is little that I find more enjoyable than to have my imagination engaged as I am
carried away by a captivating storyline. I also possess a deeply ingrained love of analysis, as I
have always been one of those people who is not satisfied with the knowledge that, for instance,
“It was a really great movie.” What was it about the movie that made it so “great?” Was it the
acting, the dialogue, the plot, the cinematography, or all of these things? Once I have gained a
clear insight into a subject, be it a novel or a film or anything else, I relish the opportunity to
share my opinions with others who have conducted their own careful studies of the subject
matter, hopefully learning something new in the process. However, although all of these
observations are true, I must admit that what I love most about English courses is the immense
feeling of pride and personal satisfaction that I receive each time the final version of my latest
analytical essay rolls off the printer. Despite all of the pain and the many sleepless nights they
have caused me, I can happily announce that never in my college career have I turned in a paper
that I was not completely satisfied with, and that, in my opinion, is an accomplishment to be
proud of.
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How is it possible for these excruciatingly difficult acts of creation to end on so positive a
note? Any thoughtful response to this question would require an in-depth analysis of my
personal writing process, and since I have never been one to hesitate to over-analyze what I find
to be interesting, I would be more than happy to walk you through my convoluted “process.”
For me, contextualization is key, as everything begins with the work of literature itself, in my
mind. This is why I have excelled at close readings (i.e. the vast majority of required papers)
throughout my writing career. I will read an article or short story once, develop a tentative thesis
which I find to be interesting, then reread the story, viewing it entirely through the perspective of
providing evidence for my critical claim. Although this step of my process remained useful, the
past semester was indispensable to my maturation as a well-rounded writer in that I learned how
to incorporate new knowledge from outside sources into my essays. I was often forced to rely on
texts relating to feminist or psychoanalytic theory, contemporary reviews, or modern critical
analysis of a work, rather than merely focusing my full attention on the novel or short story
itself. At first I was more than a little upset by this disruption of my traditional writing routine,
but I have since come to realize the value of these additional sources in creating a strong final
essay, and have thus incorporated their use into my ever-expanding “process.”
Analyzing a work in order to formulate and provide evidence for a given claim is the
“easy” part. For me, the most torturous hours in the development of any essay are the ones I
spend in translating my handwritten thoughts into a Word document format. The issue is not that
I “don’t know what to say,” it is that I know what I want to say all too well, and I am never
satisfied until the exact sentiment I was hoping to express appears before me on my monitor. If
this means rewording a particular sentence a half dozen times before moving on to the next one
(and it often does), then so be it. Although this may result in a first attempt at an essay requiring
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an entire night to formulate, the upside to my obsessive compulsion is that my “rough” drafts
generally end up appearing as carefully constructed as the first or second revisions of many of
my peers.
This fact no doubt goes a long way toward explaining why revision is the stage of my
process that I have always felt a true passion for. After letting a rough draft sit overnight, I will
return to the paper with enthusiasm the following day. After offering up a brief prayer to help
focus my attention and clear my mind of any distractions, I will crack open an ice-cold bottle of
Mountain Dew and start out on a long journey of revision which will, in all likelihood, continue
well into the wee hours of the morning. In my more poetic moments, I have been known to refer
to Mountain Dew as my Muse, as even though it does not “sing to me,” it does do a marvelous
job of both keeping me awake and getting my mind racing on new improvements which could be
made to each paragraph. Fueled by the caffeine, I will read (aloud, whenever possible) all the
way through a given essay four or five times, making constant revisions until I am finally
satisfied with the ebb and flow of my latest analytical effort.
By this point you have probably come to an understanding of my portfolio title, Deep
Thoughts, a Compaq, and 77 Bottles of Dew. Each represents one of the three steps in my
process of writing and revision, and as they have served me so well over the past semester, I
found it only fitting to name this portfolio in their honor. As I stated earlier, I have never turned
in a paper I was not completely satisfied with; the four essays which follow are no exception. In
fact, they may very well be the four works I am most proud of having authored in my entire
collegiate career. Further insights in the genesis of these essays can be found in my brief
introductions to each. With that being said, the time has come to embark on an introspective
journey through the mind of Jon Barber. I sincerely hope that you enjoy the ride.
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Evaluating the Evaluation:An Ironic Look at “The Argument to End All Arguments”
In this essay, I was asked to compose a short abstract of the Terry Eagleton article
“Introduction: What is Literature” as well as a summary of Gerald Graff’s “Taking Cover in
Coverage.” Although these opening sections were pain-stakingly researched and carefully
constructed, the real centerpiece of the paper is my heartfelt response to, and evaluation of,
Graff’s article. In an effort to express my opinion that political and methodological debate
should not be forced into college classrooms, I nevertheless create my own argument against
Graff’s proposals, thus opening up our contrasting ideas for a debate that could, potentially, take
place within the classroom environment. The irony is delicious! As a result, I have given my
evaluation the equally ironic title of “The Argument to End All Arguments.” My greatest source
of personal satisfaction in this essay was my ability to clarify what could have been a very
confusing paper through the use of concrete, real world examples of each of my points of
emphasis.
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The Argument to End All Arguments:An Abstract, Summary, and Evaluation
Abstract
Eagleton, Terry. "Introduction: What is Literature?" Literary Theory: An Introduction.
Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1996. 1-14.
Eagleton makes the claim that any definition of “literature” will be highly influenced by
the value judgments previously instilled as a result of the deeply founded, socially ideological
beliefs of a given culture. He comes to this conclusion after examining a wide variety of
differing definitions of literature. Eagleton begins by pointing out that since much of what we
commonly describe as “literature” is non-fiction, we can easily dismiss the common assumption
that the only true literature is fictional. He next disproves the Russian Formalist notion that
literature exists solely to “make strange,” and thus intensify, daily speech, on the basis that there
is no such thing as a universal “norm” for ordinary language. In addition, he feels that literature
need not be limited to “non-pragmatic discourse” (that is, applying only to the general state of
affairs), since much that was at one time considered practical or functional has since come to be
regarded as model examples of literature. Eagleton also argues that eternally relevant,
“universal” literature does not exist. In his mind, even Shakespeare could potentially be replaced
with more currently relevant playwrights at some point in the future. Eagleton’s final
observation is that there can be no such thing as a “pure” critical interpretation of literature, due
to the fact that no critic is capable of making any judgment apart from the prejudices instilled in
them from birth by the ideologies of the cultural powers-that-be.
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Summary
Graff, Gerald. “Taking Cover in Coverage.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism.
Ed. Vincent Leitch, et. al. New York: Norton, 2001. 2059-67.
In “Taking Cover in Coverage,” Gerald Graff makes a case for the integration of literary
theory into existing collegiate English courses, based largely on the assumption that all
professors are already theorists. Graff argues that an application of theory is necessary in order to
negate the gaps between distinct periods and genres, thus ensuring a stronger unification of the
entire English curriculum. Additionally, he is not merely in favor of exposing English students
to the field’s oftentimes fierce ideological and methodological disagreements; he also wants to
encourage these same students to play an active role in such debates.
Graff begins his essay with the claim that a majority of modern English courses adhere to
the traditional “field-coverage” model, whereby a work’s background information and criticisms
are left largely uncovered. As a result, precious little light is shed on the implications or social
functions of what is being studied. The most effective solution to this troubling dilemma would
be to incorporate theory into everyday English courses. When Graff speaks of “literary theory,”
he is referring to any type of open debate regarding the meaning of such seemingly self-evident
terms as text, tradition, and literature. It is due in large part to their isolation from this type of
intellectual discussion that so many students, collegiate or otherwise, have been forced to resort
to such aids as Cliff’s Notes in order to make sense of many of our literary classics. They simply
have not been given enough context against which to judge their own perceptions regarding these
works, and so feel that their only option is to rely on “experts” like Cliff to broadly generalize
these stories.
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Graff next shifts the focus of his essay to the widely accepted “field-coverage” model of
English, in which differing eras and genres of literature are strictly subdivided. While this model
is undeniably an administrative convenience, a careful application of theory to the model itself
would reveal the inherent incoherence of this practice. The coverage model’s rise to prominence
has been justified largely by its ability to regulate itself without the intervention of management,
as well as the ease with which diverse viewpoints can be expressed. However, the extreme
isolation that this structure all too often imposes on professors from differing areas of study is
more than enough to outweigh any of these positive aspects. The discussion of ideas which
subdivision, by its very nature, frowns upon has served to destroy any firm sense of community
amongst these peers, and has therefore, in Graff’s words, “programmed professional loneliness”
(2065). Furthermore, this overemphasis on division has allowed many crucial contrasts and
connections between different genres and periods to slip, mostly unnoticed, through the cracks.
In addition, Graff is highly discouraged that the average student is not in any way
benefited on the rare occasions when intellectual debate does takes place. These students would
learn much if they were allowed to actively participate in the debate over the department’s key
ideological conflicts. The majority is quite mistaken in their assumption that, until a consensus
opinion is reached regarding a theory, it will be far too incoherent to be of any practical use in
the classroom. Graff even envisions a golden opportunity in the fact that college curriculums are
often forged as a direct result of warring political factions. Rather than attempting to downplay
the influence which outside forces possess in determining what is taught in today’s schools and
universities, students should be fully informed of the conflict, then invited to express their own
opinions on the education they are receiving.
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With departmentalized isolation enjoying such immense popularity, it is not surprising
that many students find themselves unable to make sense of the English curriculum as a whole.
Graff again insists that the ideal solution would be for literature theory to become central to
every class, thus creating a context through which the links between particular periods or genres
could be made evident. Graff concludes with the observation that the most natural course of
action within the confines of the coverage model, that is, to compartmentalize theory as simply
one more unconnected requirement, is in fact the worst idea of all, and would solve exactly none
of the problems raised in this essay. The entire institution should instead strive to accomplish the
exact opposite by increasing all forms of communication between both departments and the
professors themselves. When theoretical or political debates spring forth as a result of this
breakdown of isolation, the conflicts should be built into the curriculum and discussed at length
within the classroom setting. Furthermore, although the current chronological approach could be
largely retained, professors should not remain slaves to period, instead being granted the freedom
to select the literary texts which best illustrate key issues. If each of these changes were to take
place, college graduates everywhere would be able to look back at their education as having been
a much more enriching and rewarding experience than is currently possible under the too-
simplistic field-coverage model.
Evaluation: The Argument to End All Arguments
I agree with the vast majority of Gerald Graff’s assertions in his essay “Taking Cover in
Coverage,” with only a single exception. Graff’s primary claim, namely that the field-coverage
model’s enforced isolationism has done much to negatively affect the collegiate experiences of
students and professors alike, appears unassailable. Likewise, the professor’s initial suggestion
in response to this problem, that theory be incorporated to draw parallels between differing
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courses, is both fundamentally and logically sound. However, the secondary focus of Graff’s
grand solution to this isolationist dilemma is the reason that I cannot, in good conscience, fully
endorse this essay. Graff argues that students should engage in methodological debates in order
to decide the most effective ways to analyze literature. While I could easily imagine this manner
of teaching becoming hugely successful if thoughtfully applied, I feel that Graff takes his passion
for debate one step too far when he suggests that the controversy surrounding political tradeoffs
should likewise be discussed. Although he is quick to scoff at the notion that such potentially
bitter conflicts would “confuse and demoralize” (2064) students, I could easily envision those
precise reactions being the end result of allowing theoretical and political arguments to supersede
a traditional study of the literature itself.
Graff’s thoughts on the importance of open debate can be summed up in how seemingly
disappointed he is that in the past, “the average student did not need to be aware of the clashes of
principle, much less use them as a larger context for literary study” (2063). In other words, there
would be considerable benefits to educating students as to the variety of different analytical
theories and devices that are available to them. While I do not deny the truth of this statement, I
nevertheless find myself somewhat worried by what appears to be a consistent underemphasize
on contextualization. For instance, it would be entirely appropriate to debate the merits of
approaching Chopin’s The Awakening from a feminist, rather than New Critical, perspective;
therefore, the potential benefits of this discussion within the classroom setting are readily
apparent. However, if Graff’s suggestions are followed to the extent that students are
encouraged to lead the way during these exchanges of opinion, it seems inevitable that such
discussion will not always be nearly so appropriate. To use the example of The Awakening once
again, a devout Marxist might insist on examining the novel in terms of the way social
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inequalities are presented. Intriguing though this theory may be, the amount of time necessary
to do justice to this particular reading would, in my opinion, be better spent in focusing attention
on the novel itself. I do not mean to imply that a close reading is the only valid approach to
literature; I am simply expressing that class time is far too precious to spend on introducing a
theory that does not readily apply to a given work.
What I find most troubling about Graff’s educational plan is not that he asks us to
introduce potentially non-applicable theories, but that he then wants to spend additional time in a
debate over the merits of these approaches. Call me a pessimist if you must, but I have a deep-
seeded suspicion that, amongst such intelligent and opinionated young collegiates, a benign,
levelheaded sharing of ideas could easily transform into in a heated debate, or even an outright
argument. This turn of events could potentially be highly educational for those directly involved,
yet I could also imagine students without invested interest in either opinion disengaging
themselves from the conversation entirely, and feeling, to once again quote Graff, “confused and
demoralized” (2064). As an example, imagine a classroom populated by a small number of
Shakespeare devotees who would turn red in the face at the first mention of the hypothesis that,
as some New Historicists claim, many of the bard’s play were in fact ghostwritten. Although the
heated arguments which would certainly arise in this situation might prove fascinating from a
historical perspective, I feel that class discussion would be better complimented by a somewhat
more applicable approach; a psychoanalytic, Oedipus-driven analysis of Hamlet the character
would be quite fitting, for instance. Although it is true that the application of this psychoanalytic
theory might likewise prove controversial, the crucial distinction is that the basis for each
student’s argument would be their own critical analysis of the literature itself. The students
would not be asked to place their trust in questionable outside sources, or worse yet, to simply
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cling to long-held personal biases. Graff is upset that “we have been able to exploit so little of
the potential education value of our unresolved conflicts” (2064), but I think the fact that such
controversial issues have bitterly divided even the supposed experts should by all means be
viewed as a foreboding indication of two important points regarding this practice. First, it is
extremely unlikely that undergraduates will succeed in uncovering these elusive “decidable
answers” (2064), and second, the potential value or merit of such an approach is simply not
worth the very serious risk of an outbreak of ugly argumentation, not fit for the classroom
environment. Graff dismisses as “old-fashioned” the attitude that “open debate is unseemly”
(2064), yet I am of the opinion that this particular notion may be one of the few that remain as
true today as ever.
Another piece of common wisdom that has been proven time and again in my own
experience is that one should, at all costs, avoid bringing religion and politics into polite
conversation. Graff, however, argues that even these delicate issues should be brought to the
forefront of the classroom environment. While briefly discussing some of the key “theoretical
and cultural question[s]” (2064) surrounding the collegiate curriculum, he makes what I find to
be a deeply troubling statement: “If the curriculum is going to continue to express political
trade-offs... why not bring students in on whatever may be instructive in the conflict of political
principles involved?” (2064). In airing this opinion Graff has opened, to slip briefly into sports
terminology, a enormous “can of worms.” Imagine, if you will, a particular English class being
blessed with the good fortune of featuring the presidents of both the College Democrats and
Republicans. We would expect no less than for constant political bickering to be the order of
the day, and we would almost certainly be correct in that assumption. Although these arguments
might be entirely justified during a discussion of a deeply political work, such as Orwell’s 1984,
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I could easily envision this overly competitive atmosphere resulting in shouting matches over
absurd topics such as whether or not King Lear’s Gloucester should have been allowed to abort
Edmund, or any other subsequent bastards. The most liberal or conservative-minded of students
might enjoy these off-topic debates, but this minority would do so at the expense of those non-
politically oriented students who had enrolled in the Lit class with the vain hope of discussing
literature. Although Graff would no doubt claim that even the most bitter of debates could
somehow be seamlessly incorporated into the current curriculum, I believe the time has come to
remove the rose-colored glasses and admit the truth: such an agenda would put the intended
focus of a course, in this case the literature itself, on the backburner.
Although Graff’s overconfidence in the correctness of his suggestions is rather troubling,
the most disturbing aspect of the entire essay is the unsettling terminology into which its author
eventually slips. In his last sentence, Graff implores professors everywhere to no longer “keep
students from observing and joining in the battle” (2067). I fail to comprehend what could
possess any author to wrap up an otherwise well-crafted presentation of his ideas on such a
decidedly threatening and combative note. Only four pages after encouraging his audience to
chuckle at the politically correct notion that open debate is “unseemly,” Graff now expects to
win teachers over using imagery suggesting that the best plan of action is to transform each of
their classrooms into miniature battlefields. War may be hell, but heaven forbid that we be so
quaint as to follow Graff’s direct inference that warfare’s intellectual equivalent, bitter
argumentation, is “unseemly.” I sincerely hope that the lasting impression left by this phrase has
not done anything to discourage professors from implementing Graff’s many other ideas, the vast
majority of which are sensible and entirely plausible. For example, his suggestion to emphasize
contrasts between “views of literature in earlier and modern literary periods or between
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competing and complementary methodologies” (2066) could easily be implemented, to the
benefit of all involved. In conclusion, I found “Taking Cover in Coverage” to be an excellent
essay consisting of many worthwhile insights, yet one whose momentum was at least partially
derailed by Gerald Graff’s insistent overemphasis on bringing argumentation into the classroom,
coupled with his occasional off-puttingly overzealous terminology.
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Works Cited
Eagleton, Terry. "Introduction: What is Literature?" Literary Theory: An Introduction.
Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1996. 1-14.
Graff, Gerald. “Taking Cover in Coverage.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism.
Ed. Vincent Leitch, et. al. New York: Norton, 2001. 2059-67.
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Abuse Through Affection:A New Perspective on a “Suffocatingly Close Reading”
My only real struggle in the creation of this New Critical close reading of James’ The
Turn of the Screw was simply finding something to say about the short story that had not already
been pointed out dozens of times in the past. I strive to provide a unique insight in every one of
my papers, and to never take the easy way out by setting aside an interesting, complex claim that
will be difficult (but ultimately worthwhile) to construct a paper around. Once I had settled upon
my final claim: that the ghosts did not exist and that furthermore, the governess had both
literally and symbolically smothered her young pupils to death, the essay more or less wrote
itself. There was certainly no shortage of evidence to support my thesis (I believe I filled five
handwritten pages with notes). As a result of several months of revisions, I can say with
confidence that this is the strongest close reading I have ever constructed. That is quite an
accomplishment, and one which I am proud to display in this portfolio as an prime example of
some of my strongest work of the semester.
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A Suffocatingly Close Readingof The Turn of the Screw
In his now classic “ghost” narrative The Turn of the Screw, Henry James goes a long way
toward answering one of life’s more intriguing questions: “Is it possible to love someone too
much?” If the shocking result of choices made by his nameless governess are any indication,
one would have little choice but to conclude that James himself would have responded in the
affirmative. Throughout the course of the short story, the reader is forced to bear witness to a
creeping, expansive horror, namely, the overwhelming love of this heartbreakingly delusional,
though undeniably well-intentioned, young woman. Her slow descent into insanity eventually
turns a harmless affection for her pupils into a deadly, undiagnosed addiction. By the time the
tale has drawn to its gruesome conclusion, this deeply disturbed “protectress” has succeeded only
in destroying both the mental and physical well-being of her innocent, pre-adolescent charges.
In The Turn of the Screw, the governess accomplishes with Miles and Flora what many would
consider a physical impossibly: she literally kills them with kindness.
The legitimacy of this morbid line of thought rests entirely upon one’s perception of the
mental state of the tale’s protagonist. Fortunately, James provides more than enough textual
evidence to throw the reliability of this woman’s mental process quite seriously into question. In
addition, it is important to note that we have no record of these fateful months at Bly aside from
a disputable account, penned by this very woman. Each of these points are likely meant to
impress upon the reader the feeling that the testimony, in its current form, is not to be taken
entirely at face value. If one takes into consideration the possibility that these ghosts do not
actually exist, however, he or she must then account for the troubling new question which arises:
What is the real reason for the downfall of these angelic youths? The most legitimate culprit
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may very well be the smothering affection which was forced upon the children during their long
months of well-intentioned servitude.
The first outward sign of the highly unnatural (though never supernatural) events which
take place during this fateful summer at Bly is the unusually, perhaps even dangerously, strong
attachment the governess instantly feels for the first of her young pupils. It would be one thing
to describe Flora as “the most beautiful child I had ever seen” (30); it is quite another to exude at
length upon her “angelic beauty” (30) after the manner of one of “Raphael’s holy infants” (31),
thus making the girl altogether as “beatific” as a “radiant image” (30). Even more unnervingly,
the reaction of this inexperienced governess when introduced to the older sibling is not in the
least bit more reserved. In describing Miles she says, “He was incredibly beautiful... everything
but a sort of passion of tenderness for him was swept away by his presence” (37). So moved is
the protagonist by the presence of these, the eighth and ninth wonders of the natural world, that
she even goes so far as to admit to feeling “under a charm” (37), one which “lifted [her] aloft on
a great wave of infatuation and pity” (37). Throughout the course of the narrative, the prophetic
potency of this intuition is made increasingly clear, as the governess soon succeeds in casting
this same passionately delusional “charm,” or perhaps spell, over the entirety of Bly. The
disturbing result of distancing oneself from reality in this manner can easily be witnessed in this
tale’s gruesome final chapter, and as is so often the case, the results speak for themselves.
The first casualty of this newfound infatuation is the bedtime privacy of little Flora, when
it is decided “as a matter of course” (31) that she would from then on share a bedroom with her
governess. Why a self-sufficient, intelligent girl of eight would be incapable of spending a night
alone is never explained; however, one would do well to keep in mind that this is a narrator who
needs no special occasion to justify “catching my pupil in my arms” (35), after which she
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“covered her with kisses in which there was a sob of atonement” (35). Her precious new charges
appear so gentle that, after knowing them for only days, the protagonist has already come to
doubt their ability to survive amidst an uncertain future. Is it any wonder that a woman who
exhibits from the outset such a needlessly nervous, unusually pessimistic mindset soon finds
herself in the process of creating a subconscious fantasy world in which only she could possibly
come to the rescue of these defenseless young angels?
Regardless of one’s stance on the issue of this woman’s mysterious subconscious
impulses, one must admit that she had always been blessed, on the conscious level, with a
tremendously vivid imagination. The governess would sometimes go even so far as to envision
the house at Bly as a fantastic castle out of a childhood storybook while daydreaming through
her late-evening perambulations. This does much to explain why it was not altogether shocking
that, while in the midst of one of these curious moods, her “imagination had, in a flash, turned
real” (39) in the form of the hallucination she would later coerce herself into regarding as Peter
Quint. Unlike a vast majority of poltergeist victims, the most noticeable effect of each
successive close encounter with this specter is not to further frighten the governess, but rather to
make her feel increasingly justified in regarding herself as the surrogate mother to these
supernaturally stalked children. Their mood when in her presence is apparently so delightful, so
psychologically intoxicating, that the young woman confesses to eventually giving herself over
to “the spell” (43) without reservations, as it was an “antidote to any pain, and I had more pains
than one” (43). The primary concern when perscribing oneself to any type of painkiller,
medicinal or otherwise, is the threat of addiction. The governess is a perfect example of that
most unfortunate of cases whereby the patient finds herself utterly unable to admit to her
addiction until its unacknowledged source lays lifeless in her own arms.
21
Eventually the atmosphere becomes so claustrophobically smothering in nature that the
narrator “was careful almost never to be out of” (65) the presence of her pupils. The company of
her young friends becomes nearly impossible to abjure the moment this highly unstable
governess starts to view herself as not only their substitute mother, but also their nigh-divine
protectoress. Like a knight in shining armor, this selfless martyr to imagination concludes that
“the children in especial I should thus fence about and absolutely save” (51). Not surprisingly,
she comes to “find a joy in the extraordinary flight of heroism the occasion demanded” (53). It
is not all fun and games in her own little world, however, as she makes the claim that having to
“watch them in a stifled suspension” (53) would likely, had it gone on much longer, have “turned
to something like madness” (53). The question of whether it would be possible to descend even
further into psychosis at the behest of visions arising from one’s own, previously insane
subconscious is, unfortunately, left unanswered.
The fact that the children take advantage of an opportunity to rebel, ever so slightly,
against their overweening protectress is not at all surprising, given the complete lack of privacy
which had become a way of life by mid-summer. Seen in this light, Miles’ decision to sneak
outdoors and stand in the middle of the cold, bare yard one fateful midnight ought naturally to be
viewed as a sign that the young pupils were longing for some small sense of freedom. The boy
should not be held accountable for his governess being too awash in her own fantastic
hallucinations to recognize this act as a cry for independence. The narrator instead reacts in the
most damaging manner possible, redoubling her efforts by staying up all hours of the night in the
hopes of warding off any further evil impulses. The staggering depths to which this demented
young women had soon sunk could best be summed up by her later reflection that “I had all but
pinned the boy to my shawl” (83), thus setting herself up “like a gaoler [slang for “jailer”] with
22
an eye to possible surprises and escapes” (83). Despite her own icily calm assurance that such an
observation could only have been put into the boy’s head by the devil himself, in reality Miles
had a perfect right to state that it was odd “for a fellow to be with a lady always” (83), and to
express a desire to “see more life” (85) and be with his “own sort” (85). Seen from this
completely reasonable perspective, there is nothing unusual about the boy’s decision to repeat his
feelings on the matter later that evening. He must have thought it incredibly immature of his
elder to show a total lack of restraint by, in her own words, “throw[ing] myself upon him” (94) at
the mere thought of losing her precious Miles to a new boarding school. While the reader, of
course, is aware that this governess is under the dangerously mistaken impression that she would
be “losing her boy” to a considerably warmer, somewhat more southerly locale, Miles’ next
words are, though gently spoken, blunt enough to pierce even this most advanced state of
dementia: “let me alone” (94).
Though her brother’s impassioned speech earns for himself a much-needed temporary
reprieve from the increasingly suffocating presence of their guardian, little Flora is not so
fortunate. The poor child sees the last shred of her own fragile sanity pass by the wayside on one
all-important autumnal evening. The girl’s childishly innocence mind and mannerisms are
pushed beyond the limit of endurance by her insane protector’s insistence that there, on the other
side of the pond, stands a vision of her long-dead former governess. “She was there, so I was
justified; she was there, so I was neither cruel nor mad” (101), claims the narrator, but in light of
the later revelation that neither Mrs. Grose nor Flora herself were able to share in her wild
hallucination, the reader is forced to conclude that this unfortunate young woman was guilty of
both of these dreadful self-accusations. Given the abruptly shocking manner in which she is
suddenly forced to confront her repressed, frightening memories of Miss Jessel, it is hardly
23
strange that the girl “appeared to read and accuse and judge” (102) her former “savior.” That
Flora would despise her governess for treatment so horribly insensitive that it “made her, every
inch of her, quite old” (105) seems only natural; the real issue is whether she will ever be able to
regain her former beauty and innocence this side of heaven.
Having now fallen quite decidedly out of favor with her beloved Flora, the only
remaining outlet for the madness of the unstable governess is the girl’s already standoffish older
brother. With Flora permanently removed from her life and the heroic dignity of her imaginary
world beginning to crumble beneath her feet, the young woman becomes obsessed with the
notion that if she could just get Miles to confess to having stolen her letter, it would be enough to
save the boy from dark damnation. The child seems to realize this, and although he is
understandably rather confused as to how a harmless prank had become a matter of eternal life or
never-ending hellfire, it is to his credit that he has the internal fortitude to meet one final time
with his judge, jury, executioner, and governess. Unfortunately, not even the long, torturous
months he had previously spent under the thumb of this cruel mistress had prepared him for the
religious fervor with which she pursues this crucial confession. Only minutes into this
interrogation, the pressure becomes much too intense for young Miles, and the governess notes
how “it was as if he were suddenly afraid of me” (115), as he soon began “actually flushing with
pain” (115).
Even with the advantage of decades-worth of hindsight, the governess remains so deeply
ingrained in her own hallucinatory worldview that she still has not been able to discern the
fundamental difference between her pupil’s original declaration, “I’ll tell you everything” (116),
and his frightened amendment of only seconds later: “I mean I’ll tell you anything you like”
(116). Within minutes, the once-angelic face of poor Miles has grown pale, sweat runs from his
24
body in droves, and his heart is beating like a jackhammer in his small chest – yet the governess
presses on. When parts of his confession are not quite up to the standards she demands, the
narrator makes the telling admission that “my hands – but it was for pure tenderness – shook
him” (118). At this point it is not Miles, but the interrogator herself, who makes the most
revealing and, ultimately, disturbing confession of the entire novel: “There had come to me out
of my very pity the appalling alarm of his being perhaps innocent. It was for the instant
confounding and bottomless, for if he where innocent what then on earth was I” (119)? As the
tension within the small room continues to mount, the helpless boy is again and again crushed to
her breast rather than being allowed to escape the suffocating atmosphere by reaching the
freedom and fresh air that he looks out the window in longing of. Just as in the case of his sister,
it is the all too cruel mention of the dead, but never to be forgotten, specters of Quint and Miss
Jessel which push Miles’ abused and fragile psyche far beyond its natural breaking point.
Though his once promising young mind may never have returned to its former brilliance after his
being forced to utter, out of extreme mental anguish, “the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss”
(120), there may still have been hope for a recovery of his frail body. If it ever existed, this hope
is dashed utterly by the irresponsibly impulsive reaction of the delusional governess. “I caught
him, yes, I held him – it may be imagined with what a passion, but at the end of a minute I began
to feel what it truly was that I held” (120). So it was that Miles’ short time on this earth came to
an end in what could be described in a darkly poetic fashion; just as had occurred for months at a
time on the figurate level, the boy was, in the end, literally smothered to death by the headless,
violent love of this deeply disturbed young woman.
25
Works Cited
James, Henry. The Turn of the Screw. 1898. Boston: Bedford / St. Martin’s, 2004.
26
The Importance of Being Caulfield:Why So Many Are Still “Holden Out For a Hero”
Although I would not classify myself as having been a true “rebel” at the time, Salinger’s
The Catcher in the Rye nevertheless had a profound impact on my life when I first encountered
the novel as a sophomore in High School. Despite the fact that I wasn’t about to go joyriding
around New York City (or downtown Appleton, for that matter) in protest of the situation, I
could easily relate to Holden’s frustrations over the inherent phoniness of the adult world that
both he and I were quickly being assimilated into. This fond recollection, combined with the
endless Holden references I had noticed in the five years since that time, made my ideal choice
for a New Historical topic rather obvious. I begin my essay by exploring what it is about Holden
that has kept him popular for well over 50 years, but I then take a closer look at the novel’s
infamous reputation as one of the most-banned books of all time. In what I found to be a highly
intriguing twist, I round out the paper by drawing a connection between the two themes, making
the claim that the book continues to be read largely as a result of the concerted effort to sweep it
under the rug. Once again, the irony of the situation is simply too delightful to pass up, and in
the end I felt this to be another very strong addition to my portfolio.
27
Holden Out For a Hero:The Catcher in the Rye from a New Historical Perspective
In April of 2005, The New York Times was one of many publications to describe the nine-
year-old protagonist of Jonathan Safran Foer’s latest novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly
Close, as a Holden Caulfield for the 21st century. Critic Walter Kirn calls little Oskar a
“hyperactive impersonation of Holden Caulfield,” as Salinger’s troubled teenager had “trod the
same sidewalks that Oskar does and tried to shake off a funk that also traced back to a family
tragedy” (Kirn 1). An attempt to imitate Holden is entirely understandable, given that this young
man has remained one of America’s most popular fictional characters ever since his arrival on
the literary scene in 1951. The longevity and far-reaching influence of J.D. Salinger’s coming-
of-age story has been prominently displayed even in the unlikeliest of places, such as mainstream
Japanese television. One of that country’s most popular shows of 2002, Ghost in the Shell:
Stand Alone Complex, prominently featured rebellious young characters lifted almost directly
from Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye and Nine Stories. Salinger’s influence within his own
country has been even more prominent; critic James E. Miller goes so far as to credit the author
with the popularization of post-World War II “black humor,” without which modern American
classics such as Catch-22 and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest might never have been written
(Miller 18). Perhaps the greatest testament to how highly regarded Salinger’s novel has
remained was USA Today’s December 2004 announcement that The Catcher in the Rye had been
the only work of fiction over 50 years in age to have earned a position on the year’s Top 100 best
sellers list. Why has Holden Caulfield continued to capture the imagination of both young adults
and their middle-aged parents, from one generation to the next? Perhaps an answer can be
discovered in the unwavering popularity of the tale amongst a third group: professional literary
28
critics. The regularity with which these writers have found something new to say about Holden’s
adventure would seem to ascribe a deeper historical significance to this boyhood journey than is
at first readily apparent. However, the primary reason that new generations of readers have
continued to discover The Catcher in the Rye has been, paradoxically, an unrelenting effort on
the part of conservative fundamentalists to prohibit these very students from doing so. Despite
their tireless attempts to ban the novel, these moral crusaders have succeeded only in helping to
maintain the book’s unrelenting popularity. After all, there is little which could engage the
interest of a teenager of Holden’s disposition more thoroughly than the impression that, in
reading Salinger’s controversial work, he will be committing his own act of rebellion.
These same troubled and confused adolescents have, understandably, never hesitated to
identify themselves with their 16-year-old counterpart, Holden Caulfield. The immense
popularity of the young anti-hero has remained nearly constant since 1959, when the claim was
made that Salinger’s work was “the one novel that every undergraduate in America has read”
(Hicks 88). Gwynn and Blotner’s 1958 appraisal was even more generous: “The only post-War
fiction unanimously approved by contemporary literate American youth consists of about 500
pages by Jerome David Salinger” (Steiner 113). Holden’s attraction amongst young adults of the
1950s is readily understandable; after all, he quite literally “speaks their language” (Hicks 89).
Holden’s “slangy, idiomatic, frequently vulgar language” (Kaplan 32) was considered so
accurate for its time-period that its usage drew the attention even of cultural linguists. In a 1959
issue of American Speech, Donald P. Costello called The Catcher in the Rye a “significant
historical linguistic record of a type of speech rarely made available in permanent form”
(Costello 92). By the early 1960s, teenagers had become so enamored with Holden that his
creator had begun to command “the authority of a prophet... American youth has learned to
29
speak of Salinger and Dostoevsky in the same breath and to read them in the same measure, as a
recent [1961] survey in The Nation claimed” (Hassan 57). Holden had become the
“characteristic hero of contemporary fiction... an embodiment of their secret terrors and
accumulated hostilities” (Miller 5).
Given its similarly prolific history, it is not surprising that The Catcher in the Rye has
drawn frequent comparisons to that other uniquely American boy-wanderer tale: Adventures of
Huckleberry Finn. What may come as somewhat of a shock, however, is that Holden appears to
have finally relieved Huck of his status as the rebellious child-icon to whom modern American
youth can most easily relate. The sales figures, at least, seem to bear this out; at over a quarter of
a million copies per year, Salinger’s novel is currently outselling Twain’s masterpiece two to one
(Pinsker 1). Modern writers of fiction, eager to capture even the smallest portion of Salinger’s
popularity within this demographic, have attempted so many “spiritual reincarnations” of this
erstwhile narrator that one is tempted to, like Kirn, wish that “all the Holden Caulfields who
aren't Holden were back inside J. D. Salinger's manual typewriter” (Kirn 1). Perhaps the best
example of a successful translation of The Catcher in the Rye into the present day was 1999’s
Freaks and Geeks, an inventive television program which has reached the status of cult classic in
the years following its regrettable cancellation. The show’s lasting popularity, especially
amongst teenagers, can be largely attributed to series creator Paul Feig’s decision that his own
16-year-old protagonist, Lindsey Weir, would be “a modern day, female Holden Caulfield” (Feig
4).
Salinger’s choice of narrator alone makes the novel’s sustained popularity within
Holden’s own age group easily understandable. More perplexing by far is the fact that older
generations, and even literary critics, have returned to The Catcher in the Rye time and again
30
over the previous decades, always finding a new observation to make about the work. A 1963
Salinger review made the rather startling claim that “critics have written more on Catcher than
on any other contemporary novel” (Ohmann 119). This bold statement was later validated by a
1981 study which found that Salinger’s novel had inspired 344 published essays, 21 books, 142
articles, and 14 dissertations (Schriber 226). Modern critics have explained this popularity by
claiming that the work “transcended the boundaries of age, education, and culture, a
phenomenon unparalleled in the history of modern and contemporary literature” (Salzberg 1).
There can be no denying its place in history as one of the “small number of American books
which not only had great immediate impact but have steadily grown in stature” (Laser 9). Early
reviews characterized Holden’s tale as a “rare miracle of fiction” (Gutwillig 3), an “unusually
brilliant first novel,” and “acidly humorous deadpan satire” (Laser 10), but it is interesting to
note that there was never any suggestion of the book’s universal and (apparently) timeless
appeal. Certainly no early reviewer could have been so prophetic as to predict that, ten years
after the publication of The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger would be hailed as the writer of
greatest “public and critical influence” since Hemingway, a fact forever memorialized by his
reluctant agreement to appear on the cover of the September 15, 1961 edition of Time magazine
(Miller 5).
The great emotional and psychological depth of Holden Caulfield, which has helped to
maintain his own popularity through a sustained public and critical fascination with the
character, can be at least partially explained through an autobiographical reading of The Catcher
in the Rye. Salinger himself might very well approve of such an analysis, as in a letter to a close
friend the author once “acknowledged that Holden Caulfield was a self-portrait and went so far
as to quote Holden’s opinions as though he were a person” (Salzberg 2). Always a writer before
31
a soldier, Salinger admitted to Hemingway (with whom he would later keep up a close
correspondence) that he had been crafting the story of Holden’s life even while in the midst of
storming Normandy’s Utah Beach as member of the famed Fourth Division on June 6, 1944
(Alexander 95). The four months of heavy fighting which Salinger experienced following the D-
Day invasion had a profoundly negative effect on the young man’s subsequent worldview.
Taking all this into consideration, is it any wonder that the oftentimes equally jaded literary
critics of this Greatest Generation found that they could easily relate to Holden’s profound sense
of alienation from modern existence? Miller’s understanding is that Holden’s “spiritual crisis”
was shaped “in the boredom, frustrations, agonies, and horrors of the world at righteous war with
itself” (Miller 5). Although the older readers of today do not agree with Holden’s assumption
that the entire adult world is phony and worthless, most have at least grown self-reflective
enough during their lifetimes to “identify with some part of the society being satirized” (8).
Despite these underlying and unexpected layers of depth and complexity to Holden’s
personality, The Catcher in the Rye’s modern reputation is based largely upon the novel’s long
and bitter history of censorship. Much like Huck Finn before him, Holden’s “vulgar” language
and rebellious nature have resulted in his remaining in the public eye for much longer than
anyone could have suspected. The first blatant attack on Salinger’s work was released only days
after the book itself. The Christian Science Monitor denounced Holden’s story as “not fit for
children” (Gutwilig 5), calling it a “nightmarish medley” of “vulgarity, naiveté, and sly
perversion” (Laser 12). The narrator himself was “preposterous, profane, and pathetic beyond
belief,” adding, “thankfully there cannot be many of him yet [in the real world]. But one fears
that a book like this given wide circulation may multiply his kind” (Laser 12). One shudders to
think how this author would have responded to the rise of the “Generation X” of the 1980’s and
32
1990’s (the first generation to routinely wear their hats and baseball caps backwards, in imitation
of Holden’s most outward act of defiance), had she lived to witness it! The father of a
University of Texas undergraduate was even more horrified by Salinger’s book a decade later,
claiming that Holden “used language no sane person would use,” thereby “corrupting the moral
fibers of our youth” (123). Invoking the “evil” catch-all of the Cold War era, he then went on to
say that, although it “is not a hard-core Communist-type book... it encourages a lessening of
spiritual values which in turn leads to Communism” (123). Later in this decade of supreme
paranoia, a California country grand jury came to the conclusion that the Texas father must
likewise have been misled, as there could be no doubt about it: “The Catcher in the Rye was
definitely placed in our school’s libraries to plant the seeds of communism in the minds of our
children” (Laser 132).
The early Salinger hearing which garnered the most national attention was held by the
Temple City (CA) Board of Education in 1962. Their conclusion was that The Catcher in the
Rye had no place in schools, due to “many blasphemies, unpatriotic attitudes, references to
prostitution and sexual affairs... [resulting in a] downgrading of our home life, teaching
profession, religion and so forth” (Laser 127). Apparently many other classics of literature were
guilty of similarly corrupting influences; the same Board later banned Crime and Punishment,
The Scarlet Letter, and The Grapes of Wrath. This decision ignited an intense controversy,
especially within the opinion column of a local newspaper, where a concerned mother chimed in
with a nuanced support of the Education Board: “The book is filled with swear words and no
decent person wants to read swear words” (128). One California minister found himself in
complete agreement, releasing an equally profound written statement in which he condemned the
book on the grounds that it “brings reproach upon the name of God” (131). Admittedly, he “had
33
read only excerpts,” but one could hardly have expected him to do more, given that “he found
the language so sickening that he could not continue” (131).
The firestorm of controversy surrounding The Catcher in the Rye was ignited once again
in December of 1980, when Mark Chapman, a Salinger fanatic who had attempted to have his
name legally changed to “Holden Caulfield” only a week earlier, shot former Beatles lead man
John Lennon to death outside of his home. Chapman’s only explanation for his action was
likewise eerily Holdenesque: Lennon’s “authenticity had been replaced by phoniness that was
morally corrupting to the young” (Salzberg 1). A similar assassination attempt was made on the
life of President Ronald Reagan only three months later by John Hinckley, who claimed to have
been inspired by the Scorsese film Taxi Driver and, once again, The Catcher in the Rye. Yet
despite the intense conservative backlash which resulted, the novel’s unprecedented popularity
(it had recently sold its 10 millionth copy at the time of Lennon’s death) continued unabated
throughout the 1980’s (Ohmann 119). Rarely has there been a case where the truth of the old
adage, “any kind of publicity is good publicity” was proven more concretely than during these
troubling years in the history of Salinger’s novel.
Concerned parents and politicians have not grown any more lenient with Holden
Caulfield in the past two decades. During the 1990’s, Salinger’s novel was banned from schools
in Illinois, Iowa, Florida, Pennsylvania, California, New Hampshire, and Wisconsin, on the basis
that it contained “vulgar words” and presented the main character’s “sexual exploits” (Sova 7).
All signs appear to point a 1961 ALA bulletin having summed up the book’s peculiar situation
perfectly when it claimed that “efforts to discourage interest in this book” had only made it
“more popular than ever” (Laser 130). If the concerned moralists of today would learn from
their past mistakes and simply turn a blind eye to The Catcher in the Rye, the novel might
34
eventually fade from public consciousness, despite its engaging idiom and deeper layers of
complexity. Thankfully for our next generation of readers, however, one can only assume that
the heightened conservatism of today’s climate will be sure to encourage further attempts at
censoring Salinger’s “immoral” work, thereby ensuring Holden Caulfield’s exposure to those
rebellious young readers who will most easily identify with the troubled narrator. In this way,
these same teenagers, just like their parents before them, will be sure to maintain the unrelenting
popularity of The Catcher in the Rye for decades to come.
35
Works Cited
Alexander, Paul. Salinger: A Biography. Los Angeles: Renaissance Books, 1999.
Costello, Donald P. “The Language of The Catcher in the Rye.” Studies in J.D. Salinger. Ed.
Marvin Laser and Norman Fruman. New York: The Odyssey Press, 1963. 92-104.
Feig, Paul. “The Freaks and Geeks Series Bible.” 31 May 1999. FreaksAndGeeks.com. 14 Apr.
2005.
<http://www.freaksandgeeks.com/OtherJunk/MakingContentPages/MakingBible.html>
Gutwillig, Robert. “Everybody’s Caught The Catcher in the Rye.” Studies in J.D. Salinger. Ed.
Marvin Laser and Norman Fruman. New York: The Odyssey Press, 1963. 1-5.
Hassan, Ihab. “J.D Salinger: Rare Quixotic Gesture.” Studies in J.D. Salinger. Ed. Marvin Laser
and Norman Fruman. New York: The Odyssey Press, 1963. 57-68.
Hicks, Granville. “J.D Salinger: Search for Wisdom.” Studies in J.D. Salinger. Ed. Marvin Laser
and Norman Fruman. New York: The Odyssey Press, 1963. 88-91.
Kaplan, Charles. “Holden and Huck: The Odysseys of Youth.” Critical Essays on Salinger’s The
Catcher in the Rye. Ed. Joel Salzberg. Boston: G.K. Hall & Co, 1990. 39-44.
Kegel, Charles H. “Incommunicability in Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye.” Studies in J.D.
Salinger. Ed. Marvin Laser and Norman Fruman. New York: The Odyssey Press, 1963.
53-57.
Kirn, Walter. “Everything Is Included.” New York Times 3 Apr. 2005, late ed., sec. 7: 1.
Laser, Marvin, and Norman Fruman. “Community Critics... and Censors.” Studies in J.D.
Salinger. New York: The Odyssey Press, 1963. 123-141.
---. “Salinger: The Early Reviews.” Studies in J.D. Salinger. New York: The Odyssey Press,
1963. 9-22.
36
Miller, James E. Jr. J.D. Salinger. St. Paul: The University of Minnesota Press, 1965.
Ohmann, Carol and Richard Ohmann. “Reviewers, Critics, and The Catcher in the Rye.” Critical
Essays on Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. Ed. Joel Salzberg. Boston: G.K. Hall & Co,
1990. 119-140.
Pinsker, Sanford. “Holden Caulfield on Social Security.” The College Dispatch 29 March 2001,
1.
Salzberg, Joel. “Introduction.” Critical Essays on Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. Ed. Joel
Salzberg. Boston: G.K. Hall & Co, 1990. 1-22.
Schriber, Mary Suzanne. “Holden Caulfield, C’est Moi.” Critical Essays on Salinger’s The
Catcher in the Rye. Ed. Joel Salzberg. Boston: G.K. Hall & Co, 1990. 226-238.
Sova, Dawn B. Banned Books: Suppressed on Social Grounds. New York: Facts on File, 1998.
Steiner, George. “The Salinger Industry.” Studies in J.D. Salinger. Ed. Marvin Laser and
Norman Fruman. New York: The Odyssey Press, 1963. 113-118.
“The Top 100 Selling Books of 2004.” USA Today 20 Dec. 2004, D1.
37
The Genesis of a Response:How Feminism Impacted “Virtual Versus Reality”
The final paper I have chosen for inclusion in my portfolio is “Virtual Versus Reality:
How Distinct Narratees Respond Differently to The Awakening.” Despite its official
classification as a Reader Response essay, this self-reflective piece was at least equally impacted
by Feminist theory. My inspiration for this paper was provided by comments I received earlier
in the semester after submitting an initial, feminist draft on Chopin’s story. I was surprised to
see that my paper had been termed more “anti-feminist” than feminist; that I was doing lip
service to feminism while actually re-enforcing my own, patriarchal ideology. At first I
disagreed with this analysis, but after reviewing outside sources relating to both Edna and the
period she was attempting to “awaken” within, I realized that my initial judgments had been far
too harsh, and not at all sensitive to the complexity and difficulty of the decisions that were
forced upon this young women. I feel that although this essay’s strength relies largely upon my
self-reflection, this aspect is well complimented by both an efficient use of outside sources and a
strong writing style that is indicative of my maturation as a writer during the course of the
semester. Given all of these strengths, “Virtual Versus Reality” was the natural choice for this
portfolio’s grand finale.
38
Virtual Versus Reality:How Distinct Narratees Respond Differently to The Awakening
The ambiguity present in the concluding chapter of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening has
been the source of endless controversy and critical debate throughout the previous century.
Reader response critics, such as Wolfgang Iser and Gerald Prince, feel that these differing
opinions tell us more about the readers themselves than the actual text in question. Iser’s most
important contribution to the field of reader response was his invention of the “gap,” which he
described as leading the reader “to shade in the many outlines suggested by the given situations
so that these take on a reality of their own” (Murfin 340). By this definition, Chapter 39 of The
Awakening could easily be viewed as feminist literature’s most infamous “gap.” According to
Prince, the way a reader “writes meaning” into these gaps defines what type of narratee they are.
The narratee is “the person or figure who receives a narrative” (Murfin 342), and Prince feels
that these figures exist in three distinct types: the real, virtual, and ideal readers. Real readers,
such as myself, are the physically-present individuals who actually sit down and read from, and
respond to, a given work. Virtual readers could be considered the author’s “intended audience”
at the time of publication; in Chopin’s case, this would her fellow women of the late 1890’s.
Although these two groups might very well enjoy a piece of literature, the narratee most
appreciative of a work will always be the ideal reader. Many modern feminist critics provide a
fine example of this third narratee type, as they possess as complete an understanding of The
Awakening as is possible, and also approve of Chopin’s purpose in creating the novel. When
first exposed to the story, I must admit that my reaction had much in common with that of the
misinformed, largely sexist real readers of the turn of the Century, many of whom were so
disgusted by the actions of Edna Pontellier that they sought to cease all publication of the
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scandalous novel. However, due to insights into the unfortunate plight of women during the late
19th Century which I have gained in the months since, I have discovered that my own opinion
regarding Edna’s suicide now more closely resembles that of ideal reader Barbara C. Ewell, who
views the act as “a revolutionary image of the dream of female selfhood” (Ewell 165).
Chopin’s intended reader (or as Prince would say, virtual reader) is not at all difficult to
determine. For the author, “writing was a means of exploring and articulating... the life of
women and their struggle to achieve selfhood” (Ewell 159), and thus it seems readily apparent
that Edna Pontellier was intended to be a tragic martyr to feminine independence, one whom
similarly-oppressed women could look up to and compare themselves against. Seen from this
perspective, The Awakening can be viewed as an attempt by Chopin to create an open dialogue
regarding the almost non-existent rights and freedoms of women in the society of her day. In
this regard, the controversial novel was at least somewhat of a success. Unfortunately for
Chopin, the rapidity with which her novel was banned across the nation evidences the one-
sidedness of this “dialogue” during her own lifetime. As was so often the case during this
period, the “one side” consisted solely of the type of oppressively patriarchal rhetoric which the
“Mr. Pontelliers” of the day would have found entirely appropriate.
In this sense, one could claim that The Awakening was completely disregarded during the
first half of the 20th Century as a direct result of the drastic contrast between Chopin’s virtual
reader and the actual “real readers” of the era. In two anonymous (yet obviously male-authored)
1899 reviews of the novel, the Providence Sunday Journal was so scandalized that it could only
state: “The purport of the story can hardly be described in language fit for publication” (qtd. in
Walker 166), while the presumptuously-titled Public Opinion cruelly proclaimed that it had been
“well satisfied when Mrs. Pontellier deliberately [swam] out to her death” (qtd. in Walker 171).
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While my own initial experience as a real reader of Chopin’s work did not have anything in
common with either the typical, “scandalized” reaction of this era, or the untypical (or at least
one would hope!), “I liked watching her die” reaction of the Opinion, a third contemporary
review, this one from The Nation, managed to hit much closer to the mark. “Had she flirted less
and looked after her children more... we need not have been put to the unpleasantness of reading
about her and the temptations she trumped up for herself” (qtd. in Walker 166), the article read.
While my own initial opinion was somewhat less harsh, I nonetheless echoed much of this early
reviewer’s sentiment.1 My claim was that Edna should have strived to become an “equal partner
in her relationship with her husband,” while still remaining a “mother to her loving children,
even if she frequently took time off to do... what left her most feeling most personally fulfilled,”
i.e. her painting (Barber 2). On the final page of my essay, I described Edna as a liar and a
“weakling,” who had eventually had “the hypocrisy of her pseudo-feminism... laid bare” before
taking her own life in symbolically appropriate fashion (Barber 7).
What I had failed to take into account was that I was, at that point in my life, far from the
ideal reader of The Awakening. In the months since that initial rough draft, I have reviewed
dozens of feminist articles written about the novel, looked through a wide variety of contextual
documents from the 1890’s, and collected enough personal information to grant me at least a
vague biographical sketch of Kate Chopin herself. The end result of my drawn-out, yet very
much worthwhile, process of enlightenment has been a considerably deeper understanding of the
themes Chopin wanted to express in her story, as well as the means by which she was attempting
to communicate them. Just as Prince hypothesized, this greater understanding of the work has
lead in turn to an increased appreciation for the difficult choices that Edna was forced to make
throughout the course of her awakening.
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As an uninitiated and largely ignorant real reader, I had, just like the contemporary male
reviewers, regarded The Awakening as little more than yet another addition to “the tradition in
which heroines who transgress the rules of society had to be punished by death” (Walker 181).
Although I have not yet progressed to the level of appreciation practiced by the most ideal of
readers, who have come to regard Mrs. Pontellier’s suicide as “a transcendent experience in
which Edna reaches a reconciliation,” I now realize that her death at sea is far from pointless,
because at the very least it serves as damning “proof of the negative power of society against a
rebellious woman” (Walker 181). I have come to the realization that my own experience with,
and changing opinion of, The Awakening serves as an excellent example of one of the key
assumptions of reader response, that being that the expectations and presuppositions with which
a reader comes in to a work will ultimately determine the way he or she chooses to “fill in the
gaps” they are presented with. As my personal ideology was influenced by the persuasive
feminist writings of Showalter, Walker, Ewell, and many others, this crucial shift in “what I
[mentally] brought to the work” had a profoundly positive effect on the way I responded to the
novel during subsequent readings.
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Note
1 The following quotations were taken from an initial draft of a feminist essay on The
Awakening which I authored in March of 2005. Each of the quoted selections was altered
significantly in subsequent revisions.
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Works Cited
Barber, Jon. “Soaring On Broken Wing: A Feminist Analysis of The Awakening.” Deep
Thoughts, a Compaq, and 77 Bottles of Dew: The Process Portfolio. De Pere: The SNC
Copy Center, 2005.
Chopin, Kate. The Awakening. 1899. Boston: Bedford / St. Martin’s, 2000.
Ewell, Barbara C. “Kate Chopin and the Dream of Female Selfhood.” Kate Chopin
Reconsidered. Ed. Lynda S. Boren and Sara deSaussure Davis. Baton Rouge: Louisiana
State University Press, 1992. 157-165.
“From Books of the Week.” Providence Sunday Journal 4 June 1899, 15. Ed. Nancy A. Walker.
Boston: Bedford / St. Martin’s, 2000. 166.
“From Recent Novels.” The Nation 3 Aug. 1899, 96. Ed. Nancy A. Walker. Boston: Bedford / St.
Martin’s, 2000. 166.
Murfin, Ross C. “What is Reader-Response Criticism?” Case Studies in Contemporary
Criticism: The Awakening. Ed. Nancy A. Walker. Boston: Bedford / St. Martin’s, 2000.
337-348.
Showalter, Elaine. “Tradition and the Female Talent: The Awakening as a Solitary Book” Case
Studies in Contemporary Criticism: The Awakening. Ed. Nancy A. Walker. Boston:
Bedford / St. Martin’s, 2000. 202-221.
Walker, Nancy A. “A Critical History of The Awakening” Case Studies in Contemporary
Criticism: The Awakening. Boston: Bedford / St. Martin’s, 2000. 169-185.
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