Learning time

After my entry on Karin, life took over and I ceased to have time to read and reflect on anything outside work. But now I have a new and exciting reason for delay: my spare time is currently being eaten up by reading about qualitative research, in preparation for my new work role. I am therefore, for the moment, not able to contribute directly to my own thinking and enquiry into censorship. However, in the longer term, I hope that both my reading and the experience that I gain will be invaluable resources.

This project will clearly be one for the very long term and will continue to change as my experience changes. I wonder where it will end up and how it will be affected.

Introduction to "Children's literature: new approaches"

Lesnik-Oberstein, K. n. (2004). Children's literature : new approaches / edited by Karín Lesnik-Oberstein, Palgrave Macmillan.

Normally I try to wait to read an entire book before I start a summary, but I find I cannot do that on this occasion. I have so far read only the introduction, but feel compelled to weigh in with my own personal memories before they overwhelm me.

Karín Lesnik-Oberstein has one of the most phenomenal minds I have ever encountered. She has laser focus and is able to discern and analyse complex arguments seemingly at a glance. And, wonderfully, she has the rare ability to share her understanding. She is an energetic and passionate teacher with patience to help students as they slowly evolve in their thinking. I have seen her walk past a classroom in which we, as a class, sat, waiting for a teacher who had not arrived. Quickly sizing up the situation, she came in, sat down, and picked up a copy of the week’s text, which she had never before encountered. She asked us to start a discussion, and then promptly weighed in with some of the most insightfully relevant comments and queries I have encountered. Throughout my whole whirlwind encounter with the University of Reading, I felt that I was in the presence of a force of nature; this, to me, was the true essence of academic learning.

I had the rare privilege of having her as my MA dissertation supervisor, and then, briefly, as my PhD supervisor. I feel that any academic muscle I might once have built (since lost through lack of use), I gained from her and her colleagues. And then I quit. I knew at the time that I was mad to do so; I know it now. In quitting my PhD, I gave up a once in a lifetime opportunity to learn to the limits of my capability and beyond. And yet, there was no other decision I could have made.

Karín opened up for me the exciting possibilities of reading across disciplines, across boundaries. She revealed limitless vistas and rejected stolid, easy answers. And so, why did I feel so limited, so hamstrung? The more study I did, the more I knew that I could not continue, nor usefully contribute to knowledge, without first answering this question for myself. It is still the question I set for myself, and I begin to think that it is the question of my life, the answer to which I will forever seek, and to which I may never quite glimpse the answer. Doubtless, it is really the question I am seeking in my current “research”, as I revisit my old PhD ideas. I am reminded of I robot, in which the protagonist seeks help from the necessarily cryptic memory fragments of his murdered friend. The friend, prior to his death, was able to record clues, but, for fear of discovery, not to answer questions directly. Instead, as the protagonist flounders in frustration, the computer program interjects at key points with “And that is the right question.” Now as I in turn blindly seek, I feel the memory-ghost of Karín gently nudging me towards more rigorous self scrutiny. What is the question I am seeking to answer and why? What choices and assumptions do I therefore make and how might this affect the way I view information, and indeed what I view as information?

And so to the introduction of Children’s literature: new approaches, a copy of which I was privileged to receive from Karín herself when I was still at Reading. I opened the book asking myself “new”? What does she mean by that? And of course, the first chapter is devoted entirely to that question. She argues that many authors have addressed the issue of how theory might work for or apply to children’s literature, an apparently simple and transparent field. Is there a meaningful and useful separation between professional enquiry (e.g. librarianship, teaching) and academic criticism? Many have claimed to offer a new approach, and yet all have held ultimately the same goal: how to find the right book for the right reader at the right time and for the right reasons. One issue that emerges for Karín (I know I should respectfully write “Lesnik-Oberstein” rather than “Karín”, but it just feels too unnatural at this stage) is the question of whether it is in fact possible to have a new approach when the goal remains fundamentally unchanged. Karín argues that ultimately, it is not. Another issue, of course, is the possibility of there being any sensible way of defining “the” reader or “the” book in any generalised sense. In the introduction, she concentrates on two authors as examples: Roderick McGillis and David Rudd.

Echoing my own earlier observations, Karín notes that both McGillis and Peter Hunt believe that “there are processes in reading which are somehow unavailable to the reader, but something of which the reader can be made aware, and that this is what theory does.” (p. 6). In fact, “McGillis discerns two types of readers: ‘innocent readers’ who are ‘imposed upon by what we read,… powerless to escape the enforced quiescence reading can put upon us’, and readers who have been taught theory as a way to ‘end their innocence’” (p. 6). I find the power attributions here quite astonishing: the average reader is seen as a stunningly helpless creature, even a perpetual victim, with text as a powerful tool or weapon. At the same time, there is the further power imbalance created, not by the text, but by the “expert” who can lead the reader out of “innocence” and into understanding. How does the expert become the expert, able to authoritatively lead the average reader along the path of knowledge? And if the reader is generally so naïve and helpless, who is to say that the expert does in fact have the “true” understanding?

Rudd appears also to hold similar views on the power of language, as he asserts that "certain ways of talking about a subject… actually form that subject… certain ways of speaking become naturalized and literally 'in-form' our thoughts, our way of addressing issues" (p. 14). Language and discourse thus become the essential moulders of our lives and world view. Rudd seeks to resolve the problem of the “constructed” child by addressing “real” children, and seeking their views on the books they read. As Karín asks, if the adult is generally acknowledged by Rudd to “construct” the child, how, by surveying children, does he believe to have escaped from the construction in order to access the “real” child in a way that most adult critics can’t? As Karín points out:

What kind of account could any child - any reader at all - possibly provide that would, first of all, account for the taste, emotional response and memory of any other reader according to any given similarity attributed to them (gender, age, ethnic group, etc.)? And secondly, how could any such account, even given that it existed, be seen in exactly the same way by that reader (is there only one, consistent, eternal account of a reader and a reading?), every critic and every other reader? (p. 19)

Finally, at the end of the chapter, Karín returns to the subject of the book, the reason why she, in turn, claims that the book authors’ approach is “new”. McGillis, Rudd and many others, seek finally to solve “the mystery of children’s literature” - answer the puzzle, once and for all. Children’s literature: new approaches seeks fundamentally to shift this focus, in fact precisely “not to stabilize, to end, meaning” (p. 20). She provides an example from psychotherapeutic therapy, inadvertently simultaneously addressing my own question about my lack of ability to feel satisfied by the rigorous academic training I once had the privilege to absorb:

'not knowing' is seen as an essential element of a making sense which therapy is, a toleration which is essential to a recognition that meaning - both of the patient and the therapist - is not stable, consistent and there-to-be-found, but that it is continually being created. (p. 20)

Certainly, in my own counselling, I am constantly both astonished and delighted by the continually evolving and flowing meanings that emerge and shift as I place memories, thoughts and beliefs into new contexts, in relation to new people and situations, and to accommodate new information or understanding. Why, then, can I not fully embrace the possibility of a similar approach to my study? I think of Paley and The girl with the brown crayon. Part of what delighted me in this book was the fact that Paley approached her teaching with the knowledge that she could not predict the meanings that her children would create from their interactions or readings. Each story had to be addressed as a question, with the children as active agents in defining the meaning of the story for themselves as individuals, and for the class as a social body. Would those meanings remain stable or alter over time? Paley did not know, and did not try to set the agenda. Nor did she have a preconceived notion of what the children would make of the concept of an author study, or how they would deal with the idea of author-behind-the-text. Would the different stories become one, larger story, or not? Paley set out on a voyage of discovery, and allowed herself her own meanings, complementary to or in opposition to those of the rest of her class. And she knew that these would change over time, and that the next year’s students would choose different stories, based on their own particular needs, interests and group dynamic, and have different dominant themes and motifs.

That is how I want to see the world Karín offers. And yet I don’t. In the introduction to this book, she outlines some of the difficulties inherent in seeking to stabilise meaning, or to attempt to generalise about reading or childhood. But, having highlighted such a crucial point, where to? What I found in my study at Reading was that, in the same way that other critics might endlessly seek to answer the same question of how to find the right book for the right child, the new reading I was doing seemed endlessly to re-problematise the same issues. I use the word “problematise” deliberately; for me it was about finding the problems in thinking, not only in the work of others, but in one’s own work. But, crucially important as this is, on an ongoing basis, naïvely I ask, is this all that there is? Having highlighted the difficulties with our thinking, are we condemned ever to repeat the same re-problematising loops of thought? Or is there another way in which we can hold onto the fluidity and instability of created meaning? In my own reading of Paley, I see her, not as analysing difficulties, but as embracing and celebrating the joyous, unstable and transient knowledge of the moment. What is the new approach to children’s literature criticism?

What is safe?

By pure chance I happened to catch the end of a news item on TV tonight. Parents were expressing concern over the content of stories being read to their preschool children, such as A tale of two daddies. One mother stated that she does not send her child to preschool to learn about homosexuality or sexuality. I must admit, I never have been able to understand this perspective. For that matter, I don’t even understand what it has to do with sex. What’s the difference between referring to “Daddy and Daddy” and referring to “Daddy and Mummy”? And how is the one somehow about sex while the other, presumably, is not? I don’t remember ever hearing of a book being challenged on the grounds that it mentions a child’s mother and father, thereby implying a sexual relationship. Why are two fathers lucky enough to be about sex while a mother and a father are labelled only as parents?

I seriously, seriously, just don’t get it. I never have, since I was a child, and my father first tried to explain the concept of homosexuality to me (it was a storyline in Cop Shop) and why it might be considered a problem (I wonder what he’d say to me now?!). I mean, who cares who the parents are? Whether they be mothers, fathers, gender-queer parents or whatever label; whether they be one, two, three or more? Personally I’d rather know that the child feels loved, safe, curious about life and able to learn, explore and develop with a sense that it is safe to be itself.

In order to understand why people feel so strongly about censorship, I am therefore trying to challenge myself by use of an extreme example: child pornography. I’ll admit that it has never occurred to me to feel indignant at the censorship of child pornography. Why? Because I accept the extraordinarily high likelihood of harm to children from engagement in adult-level sexual activity. I must therefore admit to an instinct to ban self expression if it is likely to result in / promote activities that are harmful to someone. The sobering extrapolation is, of course, that many people genuinely believe that certain ideas, and certain people, are harmful by their very nature. And that makes me feel very uncomfortable. Not to mention immensely sad. How shall we decide what is or is not okay? Is it even possible? And who will suffer the consequences of our choices?

Ways of knowing: Crago and Devereaux

Crago, H. (2012). "A tale of two hemispheres: Psychotherapy, psychology and the divided brain." Psychotherapy in Australia 18(4): pp. 58-65.

Devereaux, L. (2008). Between you and me: Reaching for understanding in anthropology and analysis. The uses of subjective experience: A weekend of conversations between ANZSJA analysts and academics who work with Jung's ideas. Melbourne, Australia, Australian & New Zealand Society of Jungian Analysts: pp. 45-73.

When my counsellor gave me an article to read, I did not realise (and, presumably, neither did she), that she was handing me at last the answer to the powerful question of why I failed to complete my PhD. The article, by Hugh Crago, uses as its inspiration Ian McGilchrist’s The master and his emissary: The divided brain and the making of the western world. It argues for the importance of the left and right hemispheres of the brain working in conjunction with each other, and describes the dangers of one hemisphere dominating over the other. Crago’s subject is psychotherapy, but his depiction of the current dominance of left-brain thinking in our culture, and of the marginalisation of right-brain thinkers, speaks to a wider context.

With amused and guilty delight I read the following:

Because words are separate from, and only 'represent' the real-world things to which they refer, the left hemisphere can spin off easily into a self-referential universe, and delude itself that this 'world', created by itself, is the only 'reality'. p. 61

I started to read on, then stopped. Surely what I was reading was a perfect description of post modernism? I had been here. I had lived it for four years, through a Masters degree and the beginnings of a PhD. I recognised this beast! Sure enough, on the very next page:

[McGilchrist] points out repeatedly that, on its own, the left hemisphere veers off in a deeply worrying direction, building systems of thought (and practice) that claim universal validity, but are increasingly out of touch with the reality of human beings and the world in which they live. For McGilchrist, both Modernism and Postmodernism (with obvious exceptions, such as Picasso), are examples. p. 62

After my training in critical thinking, such a statement sounds blissfully like blasphemy. I was thrown back into a world I struggled to comprehend; a world full of wonder, insight and possibility, and yet strangely unsatisfying. It was like an abstract concept, lacking form and substance. It needed context. The more I studied, the more fascinated and yet empty I managed to feel, and the more frustrated. I began to read from other critical perspectives, looking for a more complete picture, and failing to find it. I would find it in individuals, such as David Rudd, but not in any particular discipline or school of thought. And I could not work out what made the difference, for me, between a David Rudd, and a brilliant post modern thinker.

Now I suspect I have my answer. What I could intuit, but not describe, was that the wonderful work I was reading was, for me, lacking context - lacking body. And ironically, I discover, my former analyst, Leslie Devereaux, has also written on the same topic, but only now do I make the connection:

what a relief it was to find a philosophical attitude to knowing that grounded itself in experience, and investigated its conditions! - that took advantage of Kant's realisation that however wondrous human conscious is, and it is, it is nonetheless housed in bodies and sense organs and an embodied mind that gives it access to the world. No body: no mind. No embodied mind: no knowing. How humiliating is that to the project of limitless rationality hoping to become God?. p. 46

She writes of the strange disconnect between the lived experience and the ways in which we try to apprehend that experience:

Anthropology, as well as analysis, knows that people do not actually live in the conceptual, but in the daily, the totally contingent. But we think, we assess and we evaluate ourselves against the conceptual. p. 47

and

Literacy is a process whereby the thinker becomes aware of his own thoughts as an entity, as an abstraction. Writing fixes the idea, transforming the evanescent world of sound to the quiescent, semi-permanent world of space. It allows analysis to free itself from context and to develop generalising and universalising tendencies. And print, far more than mere writing, completes the separation of the knower from the known. Printed text creates finality and closure, and presents thought as a commodity in the manufacture and discursive shaping of the text, and in conventions of form. Thus the lifeworld has lost its place in the academy to analytical abstraction.  p. 57

Here at last I have my answer. Post modern thinking gave me tools with which to open and explore the universe. It then left me there, with no instruction, indeed no permission, to do anything with what I found. What I instinctively felt the need of, was to complete the circle, as described by Crago:

Key to McGilchrist's concept is that while the right hemisphere can take in new information direct from the surrounding world, and then pass it on to the left hemisphere, the left can only process what it already knows. p. 62

Defining the text

Zipes calls into question the validity of the concept of children's literature, questioning the actual level of consumption and participation in a given text by the target audience. He also opens up the boundaries of text to include other media including film, music, games and the web. As he points out, many young people (and for that matter people of any age) may read images other than traditional narrative.

That would appear to be self evident, especially as not everyone invests their time in books. Engagement in the world of meaning may occur through just about any medium, from computers to sport. The definition of "text" thus becomes so broad as to be all-encompassing. Everything from the clothes we choose to wear to the way we present our cities, gardens and workspaces, becomes a text to be interpreted. At one level this broad definition is helpful, as it gives an impression of the size of the challenge faced when attempting to determine the extent to which text impacts upon reading habits, taste, and moral and intellectual development.

I am reminded of Rousseau's carefully contrived version of educational development, in which the child is ideally allowed to develop and discover without direct intervention, but in a fashion so carefully guided and contrived as to shield the child from contamination by any undesirable stimuli. But, leaving aside entirely the question of what constitute desirable vs undesirable stimuli, what is truly the possibility of controlling the environment with which the child engages? If, as Paley suggests, children use narrative to test, affirm and expand their world view, actively bringing complex thinking skills to the task, to what extent is it possible to direct and control the stimuli with which children choose to engage, and how they will interpret those stimuli?

In addition to educational theory, the question seems to relate less to literary criticism than to psychology. The study of deprivation, cults and psychological warfare (for example) seems most likely to shed light on the potential impact of a controlled environment. I am reminded of Orwell's 1984, in which history is constantly reconstructed and every facet of life, including the dictionary, carefully controlled. But the process, while heavily defeating of the individual, seems less akin to successive approximation towards a desired goal and more akin to frantically stamping out one fire after another in an attempt to construct the desired society.

For the moment I will suppose that I am going to arbitrarily limit the scope of my focus to the traditional written book, aimed at a target audience of children / young adults. As Zipes states, it is impossible to accurately gauge who will read what, and what meanings s/he will create from them. As Paley notes in her observations of her own class, the conclusions drawn by the children are often a surprise to her, and each new text adds to and possibly shifts the meaning ascribed to texts already read. Therefore, when reading any given text, is it possible for me to do anything more than selectively (either consciously or unconsciously) engage with a construction of the world as it appears in the text, and to note any tensions between what is represented as real vs what is desired?

Escape

The world is too loud, too bright
overwhelming
A book calls to me
Even as a universe expands before me
the world shrinks
then disappears

The words disappear off the page and a doorway to a new world opens. Here, friends embrace me warmly and adventure calls. But there is no intrusion. Even as I mourn my inability to touch, to taste, I delight in the ability to hold this world at a distance. In these worlds, no response is expected or required. I am free to observe, to love, to be - and to turn away. I can fill my mind with wonder, inspiration and delight - and offer nothing in return. These friends ask nothing, need nothing; my world is safe.