T'l'iESlS LIBRARY This is to certify that the thesis entitled VOICE AND THE FICTIONAL NARRATIVE: WRITING STAGE IN TEACHING COMPOSITION presented by DONNA CASE LLA- KERN has been accepted towards fulfillment of the requirements for PhD degree in _Eng1 ish_ (J “ “14:14,? )1/ THE PRE- \ ' ”\r/Z YKz-‘vt/ I Major professor Date_June 11, 198L_ l/IT Willi/ll 3 1293 lllllilllllll' . OVERDUE FINES: 25¢ per day per item RETURNING LIBRARY MATERIALS: M P] ce in book return to remove ch:rge from circulation records VOICE AND THE FICTIONAL NARRATIVE: THE PRE-WRITING STAGE IN TEACHING COMPOSITION BY Donna Rose Casella-Kern A DISSERTATION Submitted to Michigan State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY Department of English 1981 ,,\ 2Q\MV l V. I \A... ‘- u‘.‘_. . . >1 ABSTRACT VOICE AND THE FICTIONAL NARRATIVE: THE PRE-WRITING STAGE IN TEACHING COMPOSITION By Donna Rose Casella-Kern Over the past twenty years, critics and educators have been exploring the function of fictional narratives in teaching college composition. Though their theories and methodologies may differ, many agree that English departments have too long kept literature and composition apart. This study explores one method of using fictional narratives in beginning composition instruction; in the prOposed course, the reading and interpreting of fictional narratives occur during the pre-writing stage of composing. The goal of the course is the stimula- tion and development of the student's voice through exposure to the VOices of fictional narratives. The reading and interpretation of the narratives and accompanying oral and written in-class exercises Stinuflate and develop the student's voice in preparation for the actual composing process. The first four chapters of this study present the theoretical baSiJs for the pr0posed course. Chapter I reviews the theories and reSBarch on the relationship of reading and writing and on the use of fiction in composition instruction. Chapter 11 defines voice by identifying the elements of voice and the voice pr0perties of discourse. One ‘Vay to stimulate and develop the student's voice is by exposing the student to another's voice during the reading process. Chapter III s . t’udles what happens to the reader (and the reader's voice) during the 6-. t... Donna Rose Casella-Kern communication process of reading. Interpretation, the reader's response to the fiction writer's voice, is the subject of Chapter IV. Chapter V explores the main goals of the proposed course and the pre-writing activities that can help students achieve these goals: (1) to engage students in reading and interpreting fictional narratives in order to stimulate and develop their voice in preparation for the five major writing assignments: experience, place, person, philosophy of life/issue, auto- biography; (2) to focus student attention onithe'voice communicating’through {the fictional narrative‘and on their own‘developing voiced The fifth chapter analyzes the in-class exercises and presents sample student papers and student responses to the course. The appendix complements the last chapter by featuring the proposed syllabus, a list Of suggested fictional narratives and samples of student papers. The purpose of this study is to present the theory and method- ology for introducing the fictional narrative into composition courses. The underlying assumption of the proposed course is that students can grow’as writers if they can recognize voice in discourse and learn ways of developing voice; it is my belief thatstudents can do this by reaiding and interpreting fictional narratives in the pre-writing stage of Composition. To Linda Wagner, my teacher and friend, who has given me so much support and encouragement. ii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS In six years of graduate study I have been influenced and e11<:c>uraged by many people. I owe my appreciation to each one of them. I tasspecially wish to thank Linda Wagner who has guided me and my ideas from the start of this study; Jay Ludwig who has spent long hours lleflllaing me to discover the implications of my ideas; Cathy Davidson, a 'teaic:her and scholar, who has served as my role model throughout my gréicluate studies; and Jenifer Banks, my colleague and friend, who has Shéilced much of my enthusiasm for teaching and scholarship. I also want to thank my writing students who in the past five Yeéilrs have patiently endured my experimenting and havecben§,generous Witfll their fruitful suggestions. My friends, too, have been patient; thegr have contributed to my enthusiasm for my work and kept my mind off nw frustrations. Finally, I must thank two people, Olga and Jim, who in their Special way have encouraged me throughout my graduate studies. Olga, who has returned to college at the age of 42, has always shown an interest in my work; her academic enthusiasm and new-found knowledge haveremindemée of the importance of teaching and learning. Jim, who has witnessea my confusion and discoveries, has been my editor, my comforter and my listening ear for the past six years. Throughout these years, he has continuously reassured me that I have something to give to my profession. iii TABLE OF CONTENTS INTRODUCTION Chapter I. 'UHE UNION OF READING AND WRITING: A REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE . II. VOICE . Elements of Voice . . Voice Properties of Discourse . III. THE READER AND THE COMMUNICATION PROCESS IV. INTERPRETATION AND PRE-WRITING Interpretation: An Expressive Activity Pre-Writing: An Expressive Stage in the Composing Process . V. METHODOLOGY FOR USING FICTIONAL NARRATIVES IN BEGINNING COMPOSITION Theoretical Review Methodology . - Interpretive Activity . Voice Activity CONCLUSION APPENDICES APPENDIX A -- SYLLABUS . APPENDIX B -- SHORT FICTION NARRATIVES APPENDIX C -- STUDENT QUESTIONNAIRE . APPENDIX D -- SEX IS PASSE . . APPENDIX E -- THE TRIALS OF SHORT PEOPLE APPENDIX F -- MY LIFE--A FIRST HAND STORY . BIBLIOGRAPHY iv 42 43 56 74 107 110 130 148 148 159 163 176 205 208 208 210 213 216 222 226 233 F IPI‘IA, ' \ “-~. .(1 INTRODUCTI ON The use of reading in college composition instruction, especially the reading of fictional narratives, has been the subject of much discussion in the past two decades. Critics such as H. Alan Robinson claim that students can acquire ideas for writing through reading fiction; the reading assists them in making major content decisions during composing.1 The critics James Britton and James Moffett2 look at the process of reading fiction and the way it assists the process of writing non-fiction; through the act of reading, they argue, the student writer reaches an invaluable understanding about the role of writer and reader in the composing process. The work of such critics as Moffett, Britton and Robinson has created a new perspective about the role of the fiction reader and writer in the composing and reading process. This understanding is USBful in identifying the changes that occur in students when they read a work of fiction, and the ways these changes are related to what happens to the students when they begin the composing process. I PIOpose that one of these changes occurs in the student writer's voice, that property which reflects something of the writer's identity. In this StUd)’ I argue that a beginning composition course which utilizes the reading and interpreting of fictional narratives can stimulate and develop the writer's voice in preparation for the composing process. In the proposed course, the reading and interpreting of fiction are part of the pre-writing stage of composition. 1 ran": «‘5‘! v u okar t. .115 l «n.5,. ‘ l no.1.g.‘ “‘.--.~ \ _. p. 40-.M” I.. ll. 553 (‘0' M... (D ,_ When a student reads a work of fiction, that student hears the writer's voice communicating a particular experience and understanding to the reader. Voice individualizes one piece of discourse from another. According to the results of John Hawkes' Voice Project (1967),3 voice conveys something of the writer's/speaker's personality. Hawkes also suggests that the message and style of a discourse are voice properties of that discourse. An identifiable voice is one the listener can hear and recognize in the content, structure and language of the discourse. Voice conveys something of the individual in all aspects of the discourse. During interpretation, the reader assesses what the writer's voice has communicated in light of the reader's own past experiences and vision of life; as a result of this assessment, the student reader reaches a new self awareness. During interpretation, students use their voixze to communicate (and hence validate) this growing self awareness. The student's exposure to the reading and interpreting of fictional narI‘atives, then, can contribute to the development of the student's voice by allowing the student to continuously reassess the self and relation to the world.4 Because the reading and interpreting of fictional narratives can lead to the reader's self awareness, the activity can properly be termed expressive. The term expressive is taken from E. Sapir's Culture, Language and Personality (1961); he defines expressive activity as any activity that involves the reorganization or clarification of the individual's identity or sense of self. Any activity which uses language, according to Sapir, is expressive because language reflects "-‘u. '1.. n‘. "in «3.1. O; h“ .43., ‘l. on e ' s personality: In spite of the fact that language acts as a socializing and uniformizing force, it is at the same time the most potent single known factor for the growth of individual- ity . .the readiness with which words respond to the requirements of the social environment in particular the suitability of one's language to the language habits of the persons addressed-~all these are so many complex indicators of the personality.5 Reading/interpreting of fiction is an expressive activity because during 1111:; activity, the individual undergoes an identity reorganization. When the reading of fiction is placed in a composition course, tile: act of reading and interpreting occurs during the pre-writing stage of’ t:he composing process. Janet Emig and James Britton (Development, 1975) define pre-writing as an expressive stage, one in which the inctividual looks inward and redefines the self. Since the interpreta- tioqi of fiction is an opportunity fer students to undergo self assessment, . . . . . 6 . . . the :3Ct1V1ty can be useful 1n pre-writing. I be11eve that the fiction readeqgs can stimulate and develop the writer's voice during the pre- WTitiJng stage; interpretation allows students to contemplate experiences and review beliefs, in preparation for composing. The course methodology proposed in this study is based on the theoI‘y'that the reading and interpreting of fictional narratives can serve a pre-writing function. The pr0posed course is divided into five units, each defined by the major writing assignment of that unit: narration of experience, description of place; description of person; Imilosophy of life/issue paper; and autobiography. Each unit is cfiyided into two sections: Interpretive Activity and Voice Activity. Mning the Interpretive Activity section, students complete oral and written exercises directly related to the reading assignment. These exercises require that students use their activated voice at the same time that they identify their voice and the voice of the narrative. In the Voice Activity section, students complete oral and written exercises that "tune up" the already activated voice. The purpose of the two activity sections is to prepare students for the composing process in each of the major writing assignments. The reading of fictional narratives in a composition course can be a valuable and exciting teaching method, especially when the main focus is the development of the writer's and reader's voice. One goal of a composition course is to provide students with the atmosphere and Opportunity to develop an individualized prose. The exploration of voice through exposure to the fictional narrative, and completion of related exercises, can aid students in this development. NOTES 1H. Alan Robinson, ed., Reading and the Language Arts, Supplementary Educational Monographs, Number 93 (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1963). 2James Britton, Language and Learning (London: Penguin Press, 1S970), Development of Writing Abilities, 1I:18 (London: Macmillan, 15175); James Moffett, Teachipg the Universe of Discourse (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1968). 3John Hawkes, "The Voice Project: An Idea for Innovation in tliea'Teaching of Writing," in Writers as Teachers/Teachers as Writers, eCl. Jonathan Baumbach (New York: Holt, 1970), pp. 89-145. 4Louise Rosenblatt believes that the reading process leads to tJIEB reader's new self awareness. The Reader, the Text, the Poem: The 'Trransactional Theory of the Literary Work (Carbondale, IL: Southern Ililinois Univ. Press, 1978). 5Edward Sapir, Culture, Language and Personality (Los Angeles: Urii v. of California Press, 1961), p. 11 6Janet Emig, The Composing Process of Twelfth Graders (Urbana: Nai:ional Council of Teachers of English, 1971). CHAPTER I THE UNION OF READING AND WRITING: A REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE In Sense and Sensitivity (1965), J.W. Patrick Creber argues tliait an instruction in composition, like writing instruction, that dQEEPOP include listeninfggisgincomplete. Creber notes that one form of? listening, the reading of literature, can complement writing ins truction: Reading is the kind of knowledge which may make a real impact on the way of life of those who can use their imagi- nation to realize the essence of truths which stated abstractly wouldlotherwise be mere theory--indigestib1e, intellectual food. He (Explains that reading is a form of listening, because it is a means 0f triking in and translating the ideas of others. This process of IiStzening by reading, he argues, assists students in the writing process by deve10ping their imagination. As a result of reading, the quality 0f Student writing will be a "fair reflection of their reading . 2 . . . . exPerlence." C3§2§£L§_m§1911filgumQfliiwihen,_1s_that_read1ngi_wh1ch Wi_§mli§iifliflfl_.PP99§§5.1-.IZTQLiS1_e.§___S_IEU§.e_n§ :5. “Vi?" ._f'__'.'I'..'1__que E“9Wl99g§~diEEEElZ,§BEliQED}Qitgithe writing process. Creber's position reflects the general belief in the last two decades that reading and writing are inseparable language arts, that writing feeds on the knowledge acquired through reading.3 gg Some critics, 4 like Creber, believe that the imagination is the 11.,iflklinlllb913h, processes; ~v Iran-v. ""‘"'u.;l"lf Km" F...“ qua...»— War. v .1 .x.. o o o o o 4 e o the imagination functions when students 3331.?Pd write. Such critics r . ' Hana-a. .L. _ "w —.-4_ ,.§4.,..-». *r“ as James Britton, James Moffett and Mina Shaughnessy also have argued for the inseparability, but they link reading and writing as forms of i (a. .m 1 ”W‘.’ -AVW.M..M~M bfll‘nl‘ magumw- discourse exchaggefi Reading and writing, according to these critics, are discourse activities that involve the exchange of language. A reader uses language to comprehend the writer's message; the writer uses language to transmit the message. These critics have contributed somewhat different interpretations of the relationship between the two Processes of reading and writing, but all agree that both processes are inseparable in composition instruction. In light of the overwhelming support for the inseparability of reading and writing, it is surprising that few composition instruc- tors use reading, especially the reading of fiction, in non-fiction Composition classes.6 In fact, a taboo seems to hang over this instructional method. The theoretical opposition to the use of fiction in composition instruction is negligible and much of this oPposition stems only from the lack of innovative theories and research in support of the method. Maybe more instructors would use fiction if they could be shown its importance to the writer's growth. The work of 511Gb critics aslfigfiett, Britton, Louise Rosgnblagt, Walter J. Ong, S-J. , Wolfgang Iser and Mary Louise Pratt has paved the way for a solid theory and methodology in support of reading fiction in a comPosition course. These critics view the process of reading fiction as a dialogue between writer and reader, a dialogue that influences the Way a reader thinks and writes. In line with these theories, 1 proPose that the way the individual is influenced during this reading process can be useful preparation for the writing process. The act of reading fiction stirs an individual to respond to the writer's voice-- the message and personality behind the message; the reader's response indicates that the reader's voice has been activated and is undergoing change. The resulting growth in the reader's voice is invaluable to the reader as writer. The following review of the literature explores those theories that establish the link between reading and writing and those that emphasize the importance of fiction in the writing classroom. The review is offered in preparation for a fuller exploration of the meaning of voice and the way it functions during the process of fiction reading and non-fiction writing. The brief overview begins by out- lining those theories which view reading and writing as comparable language arts. The second part of the overview presents the theories in support of using fiction in a non-fiction composition course. The theories and methodologies for using fiction vary widely: fiction is used to exemplify style, help the reader discover paper topics, and so on. The theories and accompanying methodologies, however, that best account for the writer's growth as a result of reading fiction, emphasize reading and writing as process-oriented activities. Students can learn about style and generate ideas from reading fiction; however, the acquisition of such knowledge is symptomatic of a larger change in the overall make up of the reader. The relationship among the language arts of reading and writing has dominated the work of twentieth-century researchers and critics in W Eran-giant the tempted the martian. llffett (1968 Peter Eranech' Shaughessy [ steriezces a limiting. H. Al cizgrehensive 552155 and 3 57531.53 deli‘; 73-4.».1. ' kug‘” SI \‘ f ' it: 0 Rte... of cl "L. "-itl fa;- ‘ ‘»G h nihg 54“ L“ critics in the fields of language learning and composition theory. Throughout the sixties and seventies, authorities in both fields recognized the impossibility of separating reading and writing instruction. These critics include H. Alan Robinson (1963), James Moffett (1968, 1976), William D. Page (1974), James L. Calhoun (1971), Peter Evanechko (1974), James Britton (1970, 1972, 1975) and Mina Shaughnessy (1977). All argue for reading and writing as inseparable experiences and explore the kind of knowledge transferred from reading to writing. H. Alan Robinson's Reading and the Language Arts (1963) is a comprehensive collection that represents the major theories of the fifties and sixties on reading in the composition classroom. The papers, delivered at an annual conference on reading held at the University of Chicago in 1963, center on the language arts as a single pattern of closely related skills: reading, writing, spelling, vocabulary, linguistics, etc. Reading and writing are comparable language arts because they involve the same set of "symbols”: ideas, information, opinions, feelings and emotions. Consequently, each art can provide stimulation for the other. These educators suggest that when reading is introduced before writing assignments (even non-fiction writing), the writer is motivated to write and provided with the skills necessary for clear writing. The three articles in Robinson's study which closely explore the reading and writing experience include Nila B. Smith's "Language, a Prerequisite for Meaningful Reading," Wayne C. Booth's "Interrelationships of Reading and Writing," and Oliver Andresen's "Interrelating Reading and Writing in Grades Nine through Fourteen."7’8’9 . . . \lIOI 6-14va ‘u w" web‘s 10 In her historical approach to reading and writing instruction, Smith notes that for many years, reading and composition instruction occurred in the same classroom; teachers made combined use of speaking, listening and comprehension. Eventually, the different segments of language arts were separated to facilitate instruction. However, Smith now sees the trend moving towards a merger of all the language arts and believes strongly in the need to restore reading, writing and other language arts to a single instructional method. To support her contention that reading and writing are comparable language arts, Smith lists four ways in which the two processes are similar: both have common purpose, symbols, structure and thinking processes: In writing an author has a message he wishes to share; the reader wishes to receive this message. The basic pur- poses of communication hold true in reading as well as in other forms of language expression . . . . In language communica- tion interchange of thought is accomplished through the use of word symbols. . . .Regardless of whether we speak, listen, write or read, we draw our word coins from the same bank. . . . The same structural patterns of sentences are used in all forms of language expression. . . .Basic sentence patterns are of great importance; in fact they are said to be "the backbone and central nervous system" of language. These patterns, of course, are the same in speaking, writing, listening, and reading and are basic in conveying meanings. . . . Understand- ing the meaning of language symbols is the substratum factor in the efficient functioning of all forms of language expression. Thinking is the agent which pre-digests, accompanies, or post- digests the raw material of language and converts it into meanings. (pp. 6-7) Because she sees crucial similarities in both language arts, Smith suggests that reading be taught in the writing classroom and that writing be taught in the reading classroom. She devotes most of her study to looking at the relationship between the two language arts in pre-college students and ends her study suggesting that the two language arts sic .. \‘.‘ ‘ " m» s . \o . . 5- ' “in” "‘53 “" DA. . ‘A As (.3 qt: ’1 - b H ('1' rm 11 arts should be taught together at all levels: "Ted, a college student who had taken a course in reading improvement, evidently benefited from the use of composition as a prerequisite to reading skill" (p. 11). She concludes that all teachers of reading and writing should develop a keen awareness of the relationships of all language arts and integrate them in the language arts classroom. Booth in "Interrelationships of Reading and Writing" explores the connection between reading and writing in the college composition class; in his article, he assumes the importance of reading to writing and explores the opposite. He emphasizes that extensive writing can motivate reading, provide cognitive contribution and cultivate an aesthetic appreciation for reading: The first major contribution that writing assignments can make to our reading instruction is in providing motiva- tion. The usual way of putting it is the reverse of this: reading can be used to motivate writing. But we too often overlook the ways in which the whole set of attitudes a student brings to his reading can be modified by his experience with writing. . . . Again we are more inclined to recognize the service of reading to writing than of writing to reading. We all know, don't we, how much it can mean to students when, for the first time, the devices of coherence are pointed out to them . . . .It remains true that students who have been required, in their writing, to respect coherent thought (through reading comprehension) will certainly prove less vulnerable than most Americans are in their reading habits. In addition to the affective and cognitive contributions that writing can make to reading, there is an important aesthetic contribution: how one appreciates other men's writing depends in some degree on how one can write. It is easier to see the reverse contribution; it is often remarked that whether a man writes with style and taste depends largely on the styles he has tasted. (pp. 113-114, 116, 119) In order to encourage student reading and writing, Booth explains, the teacher must help the student develop an emotional commitment to both, learn the meaning of coherence, and acquire an aesthetic appreciation .\-‘;.. \--.1»\ ‘57:. 1 .L5‘ I “ A- .: gq “21.: -ku.. . ‘ . n_‘: H.” 1"; ‘ 'o.‘~. ~., .~‘-. 12 for both. These three areas in which he links reading and writing are inseparable: ". . . the student's emotional commitment to writing and reading cannot be finally separated from his desire to think clearly and to know beauty" (p. 122). Another essay dealing with reading and writing in Robinson's collection is Andresen's "Interrelating Reading and Writing in Grades Nine through Fourteen." Andresen's emphasis, unlike Smith's and Booth's, is on the compositional skills that can be acquired through reading. She argues that in order to comprehend or express meaning fully, the reader and writer should be aware of the other's rhetorical devices; therefore, instruction in one art is dependent upon instruction in the other. According to Andresen, both writer and reader must learn to identify and create the third-dimensional effect of ideas. The perceptive reader, she says, senses a third-dimensional effect of ideas (expressed according to rhetorical patterns); the successful writer learns of this third-dimensional effect through reading and attempts to reproduce this effect in writing: The essence of good writing is clarity and style. In other words the writer reproduces in print his thinking in as precise and interesting a manner as possible. To achieve this, the writer expresses his ideas according to rhetorical patterns. For example, he might make a point by a question and answer, by a comparison of two issues, or by showing a cause and effect. With these patterns the writer gives clear indication of what he considers to be his more significant thinking over that which is less significant. The result is the third-dimensional effect. The reader, therefore, in order to sharpen the third— dimensional effect on the printed page should be conscious of the writer's rhetorical patterns; for these patterns are a guide for the reader to a more complete comprehension of what the writer has to say. (p. 131) :43 K 1 v V flh-Ia fl.‘ 4 :11.» mm 37.119 IEECI; ‘ 1 1 t “news A» .‘ _ tn. ._o guilt ";‘>"}-‘ «5“ Lu'“ s53; 1‘- \ 7- r. "-H p' ' 11 \.‘.,‘ ., 13 Andresen also discusses the teaching techniques that can enhance student awareness of the third-dimensional effect; she focuses on the teacher's responsibility to develop reading comprehension of phrases, sentences and paragraphs. The students learn these basic rhetorical techniques through reading and then apply these techniques in writing; Andresen implies in her discussion that when students are placed in the reading role, they have the opportunity to witness the way a writer creates ideas and differentiates among these ideas: "His chief guide to the differentiation of one idea from another is the rhetorical pattern in which the writer has presented his ideas" (p. 137). With this knowledge of the essence of the writer's role, the students are better equipped to assume that role in the writing process. The classroom methodologies proposed in Robinson's collection have since been scrutinized and updated, but the basic premise of the theories and research has not changed: reading and writing are inseparable language experiences. More recent authorities, such as James Moffett, William D. Page, James J. Clahoun, Peter Evanechko, Julia Falk, James Britton and Mina Shaughnessy, also argue for the interrelationship of both experiences. In addition, these critics explore the specific knowledge transferred from one process to the other and in some cases provide support from research. James Moffett in Teaching the Universe of Discourse (1968) am-fi‘. and writing when he identifies both as forms of discourse. A discourse iszunrpiece of verbalization which processes experiences. When students read or listen, they internalize experiences; when they write, ~--1\vl.-\ '5 v 'i .u O-‘Dovrub A I u \4-...... , haw-151 5. ‘ a : s l 14 they attempt to communicate experiences. To clarify the development of reading and writing abilities in students, Moffett compares this development to a child's language acquisition. During a child's acquisition of language, the two discourse forms of reading and writing are related,but distinguishable; reading comprehension comes before writing comprehension in the child's natural language acquisition. Similarly, students' writing comprehension partly depends on previous exposure to reading material: We have to distinguish, however, between the capacity to produce a given discourse and the capacity to receive and understand it. It seems clear to me that the reading schedule, though proceeding through the same steps as the writing schedule, and in the same order, would run ahead of the latter in most cases. That is, a student would read, say, essays of generality before attempting to write them. In fact, his own ability to monologue at that level (writing) may partly depend on prior familiarity with others' monologues at that level. (p. 31) Students learn how to produce a particular discourse, according to Moffett, by exposure to another's similar discourse. Moffett sets up a naturalistic language curriculum that emphasizes the importance of speaking, listening, reading and writing in students' language acquisition at all levels before college. The basic premise of this curriculum is the similarity between the way we communicate and receive language. Moffett prOposes expanding students' repertoire of language uses by having them "write, as well as read, interior monologues, private diaries, personal letters, autobiography, biography, history, and science" (p. ix); each item in this listing is a form of discourse. In his curriculum, students learn the basic operation of the discourse modes by being made aware of the relationship Hot-- e n 114:9; Sit-E v u Hen-y O A ‘\\ E. . 1 II. vaxsi‘L v. "2': firms: LU. phi/L»— ‘ \ no e’ Fe he! an ... _',. K " . EH. Meal :0 ‘. Xgi 2": t "u N - s erx Zrl .: a ‘12. r trans «111g {H \\ ;» ~ 5} ‘ 15 between speaker and listener, i.e., the levels of abstraction in association with each form of discourse. Moffettmdefjnesuthemabstrac- tige process as the wax.the_speaker-symbolically tran51a£§§ Eh? m9§§age fgggthe benefit of the listener: Within the relation of the speaker to his subject lie all the issues of the abstractive process--how the speaker symbolically processed certain raw phenomena . . . .What creates different kinds of discourse are shifts in the relations among persons-~increasing rhetorical distance between speaker and listener, and increasing abstractive altitude between the raw matter of some subject and the speaker's symbolization of it. (PP. lO-ll) Crucial to the writing process, Moffett implies, is an understanding of the relationship between writer and reader; built into that relationship are the rhetorical and abstractive distances between the speaker and listener. An understanding of this relationship through reading can help students decide on the form of this relationship when they sit down to write. Six years later, William D. Page in "The Author and the Reader in Writing and Reading" (1974), agrees with Moffett: reading and writing are forms of discourse.10 He applies the theories of communication and transformational grammar to illustrate the unity of both processes. Citing communication as the intent of both writer and reader, he explores the theoretical and structural implications of the communica- tive intent: The analysis that follows expands the ideas of expression and reception by identifying similarities and dissimilarities in the elements and functions of the writer and the reader. It emphasizes the fact that most of the communication process is not observable and can only be understood if one constructs a theoretical framework for piecing together the observable fragments. What is observable includes the organisms, the writer and the reader, some of their responses, and the graphic 16 display of the writing or written surface structure produced by the author and encountered by the reader. (p. 170) His analysis rests on the assumption that writing and reading are ways (of processing language and that transformational grammar terms (surface structure, deep structure, meaning and knowledge) can be used 1x) define the activities of writing and reading. After establishing communication as the intent of both writer arui reader, Page applies the theory of transformational grammar to the irexiding and writing process. Print or writing, he says, is observable language or surface structure (as defined linguistically). The author's irrternal concept of the sentence about to be written is conceived _§3§§ucture. Perceived structure is the perception internalized by the reader of the observable surface structure. In addition, both conceived aruj perceived surface structure "are circumstances of inner speech, ‘Jruibservable elements of the writing and reading process" (p. 171). 13e-‘neath the surface structures lies the deep structure from which the meaning of the sentence can be determined: "Deep structure not only includes the clause and phrase relationships,but it also involves the 14Inguage user's grammatical rules required to produce or interpret a ESentence" (p. 172). Page proposes that meaning--that which we put into ‘Print when we write and get from print when we read--includes grammatical relationships (diagrams of deep structure) and qualitative relation— ships (analogies of signs). When discussing reading and writing in connection with trans- formational grammar, however, one cannot simply refer to the meaning of the text; one must rather refer to the knowledge derived from the u-rf ’u. '\ MI W: '... Ch ‘- v.. J‘s . s ‘H.. 17 text. Page notes that meaning and knowledge are often treated as identical entites, but in this analysis of writing and reading, it is productive to separate them for a number of reasons. The separate words of a sentence may be individually meaningful on a lexical or referential basis, but the sentence may remain uninterpretable. Similarly, the meaning of a sentence may be understood, but not believed because of other, conflicting and more compelling experiences. A sentence may be meaningful in isolation, but prove itself unbelievable due to an internal inconsistency in a paragraph, passage or book. Knowledge gained from reading includes meaning, in the sense that we can know what a sentence means by reconstruct- ing the author's analogies, but knowledge also includes what we infer from a sentence in relation to our experiences after reconstructing the author's analysis. (p. 173) 1716: reader, according to Page, is not the only individual acquiring kruowledge; the author, through the constructive process of writing, also is acquiring knowledge: The author's knowledge represents a beginning point in the communication process and the reader's knowledge is seldom a precise reconstruction of the author's knowledge since both are engaged in a constructive process. (p. 174) Page concludes his study by exploring a sequential relation- sltip between reading and writing. His diagram transforms the author's knowledge through various steps to the reader's knowledge (see page 18). ’Vt the point of producing surface structure, the author's participa- 'tion ends and the reader's begins. Using rules of the reader's 1anguage, the reader assigns deep structures to the perceived surface structure; the deep structure relationships result in meaning. The reader acquires knowledge when infering additional meaning by applying life experience to the deep structure meaning. Communication, the Purpose of writing and reading, according to Page, is met at the point 0f the reader's acquisition of knowledge.11 ‘01-‘- . sine; I (n (I v 14.1. l8 AUTHOR READER Knowledge Meaning 5 Deep Sffucture l \‘V Conceived Surface Structure Graphic Surface Structure —¢Graphic Surface Structure Perceived Surface Structure Deep Structure Meafiing I 1, Knowledge (p. 176) His conclusions about reading, writing and the theories of cOmmunication and transformational grammar lead Page to suggest the in1]por'tance of interlocking the two processes in reading instruction: The language experience approach in beginning reading instruction involves getting the ideas of the learner into writing to permit the learner to encounter his own language forms. (p. 182) rhige concludes that learning to read and write are interdependent ‘1anguage experiences. At the same time that Page was working with transformational grammar as the link between reading and writing, James L. Calhoun (1971) and Peter Evanechko (1974), in two separate studies, published their research on the affects of reading on writing instruction; both Suggest a relationship between reading and writing and emphasize the importance of using reading in writing instruction. Calhoun in "The I ... it . 53V .. _ \‘V - ~85. _ :(D .‘$ o~.“ -... ./. t 19 Effect of Analysis of Essays in College Composition Classes in Reading and Writing Skills" states his question:12 . will the systematic teaching of selected reading skills through written exercises and discussion result in measurable gains in (a) the ability to recognize specific examples of the effective use of composition techniques, and (b) the ability of the student to use theme techniques in his own writing. (1971A) fiix English composition classes at East Nazarene College provided the fixxperimental and control groups. The experimental treatment--ten leessons based on essays-~was administered over a period of ten weeks to tile experimental group. The control group had no systematic instruction 111 such analysis, but all other elements of instruction remained the Same for both groups. Calhoun used a t-test to test for significant gfiins in achievement from pre-test to post-test in reading and writing. 116! compared the reading and writing achievement in both groups through 31] analysis of covariance. Results from Calhoun's study indicate that a student's systema- ‘tixz analysis of essays (from outside the classroom) contributes to an iJicreased awareness of rhetorical techniques when they are encountered ili reading: 1. Significant gains occurred on the reading post-test for the control group at the .025 level. 2. Significant gains occurred on the reading post-test for the experimental group at the .005 level. 3. No significant gains occurred on the composition scale scores for either the control group or the experimental group. 4. The results of the analysis of covariance on the reading test showed a significant difference at the .01 level in favor of the experimental group. 20 5. Analysis of the composition scores showed no signifi- cant difference between the two groups. (1971A) Calhoun could not prove conclusively that the "technique” awareness, as sampled by a reading test,can be shown to transfer into writing skills; but he emphasizes that "Statistically significant correlations Ivere observed . . . among all the measures of reading and writing :5kills used in the study" (1971A). His study, then, suggests the ianortance of reading in the understanding of certain rhetorical txechniques that can be used in the writing process. Evanechko's research model was more sophisticated than Ckilhoun's and yielded better results because he specified categories <>f7 compositional skills. In his 1974 study, Evanechko acknowledges thework of his predecessors, but notes that the specific nature of tlie relationship between reading and writing is often unclear.13 In <>IWier to increase the overall effectiveness of reading instruction, he Preposes to identify the common elements in the two processes. Using 1138 sixth-grade children from four classrooms in a Victoria, British C3<>1umbia school, Evanechko investigated the relationship between c1hildren's performance in the receptive language act of reading and *EXpressive language act of writing. His specific aims were to determine the best combination of indices of writing performance to predict reading achievement; and to identify and apply valid indices of written language behavior which are based upon transformational grammar theory. (p. 316) Among the variables measured in the study were: sentence patterns, Sentence transformations, vocabulary, information, interpretation, appreciation, and literal, creative and general comprehension. "M" I9 ‘ v . . "Qua 53 2'16 EC 1 . 5:: mt. {,1 $15 21 In the conclusion of his study, Evanechko contends that a strong relationship exists between the receptive behavior of reading and the expressive behavior of writing. And, he adds, both reading and.writing use certain language skills in common; the presence of “these skills could result in better performance in both reading and \vriting. He cites language fluency and the control of syntactic ccnnplexity as the main language skills in common: Thus for the Grade Six children in this setting and of the language behaviors, indexed, fluency in language as measured by total number of communication units appeared to be the single most important concomitant of success in reading. The child's competence in the use of a variety of structures leading to greater syntactic complexity as measured by the Two Count Structures was the next most important index of reading success. Also, it appears that these same two language competencies, fluency and control of syntactic complexity, underly all measured reading behaviors. Language measures which do not tap these competencies therefore appear to be inappropriate as indices of children's language competence related to reading behavior. On the basis of this information, the Botel and Granowsky Formula for Measuring Syntactic Complexity could be considerably simplified and still produce the same results. If fluency and control of syntactic complexity are the key language competencies underlying reading achievement, then building these two competencies may well improve reading performance. Since language is learned more readily in oral form rather than written form, the development of fluency and control of syntactic complexity in oral language would seem to be a first step. Logically, fluency would seem to come first, first orally and then in written form. Control over complex syntactic devices would then build on fluent expression. (pp. 325-326). EVanechko suggests in his conclusion that a systematic instruction of language acquisition, oral and then written, will lead to reading achievement. ‘Y‘ ‘ VA quin- ny‘ba i \. dl .. . 1'H‘N In... u. . .11 .9” .\. LL . u a I i Q i i l. h .' .9 s. s 5 Id.- In.- 1 . _ nu . . h .A . hi- n\ It .anu a1» V . -le N x C.” a s ....U All... HRH; u I i ,\ t. .- - l .e a f t . .. . s it» 9 s9 “5 22 In part of his study, Evanechko uses language acquisition theory; Page's entire study is based on the linguistic theory of transformational grammar. Another critic who uses linguistics as a Ineans of identifying the connection between reading and writing achievement is Julia Falk. In "Language Acquisition and the Teaching :Ind.Learning of Writing” (1979), Falk suggests that all language zacquisition (including writing) occurs through the internalization of 'fipatterns and principles that are acquired through extensive exposure tC) and practical experience with the use of language in actual, natural Clintexts and situations" (p. 44).1 According to Falk, students come irito contact with natural language when they read. Assuming that writing is a form of language acquisition, Falk Stuaws how the learning of writing skills is similar to the production of oral language in children: Writing, as the written representation of language, and speech, as the oral representation of language are different but co-equal concrete means to express language. Therefore, whatever is known about the learning of oral language produc- tion (i.e., learning to talk) will have implications for the learning of written language production (i.e., learning to write.) Both are instances of language acquisition. . . combination these two assumptions provide a model of the adult who is learning to write as a form of natural language acquisition, similar in fundamental ways to children's acquisition of speech. (p. 437) In A child, she explains, acquires language through consistent exposure t0 speech. Similarly, the long exposure to the writing of others prior to the production of writing, provides the student learner with written Samples and eventually with an understanding of the patterns and Structures of written language. The best practical preparation for learning to write at any level, therefore, is learning to read. .,._ . .1»: J .6 .L .e... h.‘ on; , 0.. .1. ha.- .A 23 Falk explains that in planning writing assignments, instructors shouldl encourage students to read extensively in the form of writing they “Kill later produce.15 Exposure to this reading material provides studerrts with information about writing styles; the students can then "utiligze their natural language acquisition capacities to internalize the basic principles, structures, and organization of the style prior to an.)r overt teaching on the part of the instructor" (p. 348.) Falk emphasxizes the importance of "extensive” reading assignments as opposed to "rarukmf’reading assignments. Referring again to language acquisi- tion in children, Falk argues that a child is exposed to a particular style of speech to a great degree before producing it. This extensive exposure facilitates comprehension which occurs before production: In oral language acquisition, children's comprehension appears always to precede their production. (The memorization of nursery rhymes is, of course, an exception, but phenomena such as this appear to be peripheral to language acquisition.) Not only do children hear a great deal of speech in a particular style before producing it themselves, but they are also able to comprehend specific words, sentence structures, and discourses before they can produce such aspects of language. The same is true for the adult acquisition of writing: This, too, supports the importance of reading. Unless a student has acquired the ability to comprehend a particular type of writing, that student normally will not produce acceptable samples of writing. . . . It will not be enough to have students read one or two essays, nor will the predicted result occur when readings are drawn from an anthology designed to present a wide sample of distinct forms and genres of writing. Indeed, we can find clear indication of these points in the professional fields. (pp. 438-439) Chi1dren, like adult learners, absorb (internalize), comprehend, then produce.16 > 1 pun ‘ «H. R -->$- sl A . .uan l 0;:‘,. "kn... . ‘7‘, o uh“. . l a.’. r. 5‘ ‘ \ b 24 Falk emphasizes that student comprehension of writing style which comes from the internalization or absorption of another's style-- syntaxg. sentence structure and discourse--must occur prior to any overt teadhiirg on the part of the instructor. All natural language acquisi— tion 145 an unconscious process that can be hindered by overt teaching. Language acquisition cannot be taught traditionally; it can only be learnexi through the internalization of patterns acquired through extensive exposure to speech (oral or written). This basic premise holds true for the child and the student learner: Without overt instruction, the child unconsciously observes the use of speech in the environment and develops an ideal of how the linguistic system works; the child identifies what appear to be the patterns and structures of the language. As the child develops these hypotheses, he or she will use them in attempts to communicate. (p. 440) Similarly, the student writer should not be interrupted as the student Observes the use of style during the reading process and absorbs the Patterns and structures of the written word: For writing, then, we must allow students to form their own hypotheses about how written language works. The data that students will use come from the examples of written material that they have read. To test their hypotheses, students must write, and their writing must represent efforts at communication. (p. 441) Ghee the student has made the attempt at communication, the communica- tiVe effectiveness must be tested. At this point, the teacher and the Student's peers step in to test the effectiveness of communication through the exchange and discussion of papers. Falk's major point is that the teacher's involvement must be kept at a minimum in order for the writing acquisition to proceed naturally, just as parent involvement must be kept at a minimum during the child's oral language acquisition. 1 1:07 ugh. . . 1‘1 C. J. 4» “VJ - \ ~¢.~,. L» ‘11. t.“ P‘s ~h' ~\A ‘5 -\C 25 Falk's link between oral language acquisition in children and writing acquisition in adults provides a strong argument for the use of reading in the writing classroom: reading comprehension can be the initial stage in writing acquisition. Implicit in Falk's argument is that reading comprehension and writing acquisition are process- oriented. Two other theorists, James Britton and Mina Shaughnessy, agree that the benefits of reading in the writing classroom are process- oriented, but they offer somewhat different explanations in their supporting arguments. The student writer, they propose, needs to learn about the role of the reader/audience; students can best understand the reader/audience by assuming that role. In his extensive research on pre-college students, James Britton My concludes, "Wihlato—emsideswrfiingiasflmething 7 sepggated . . . . . . 7 .frgg the whole fouglgatiogwggnthgfliflmdiyiggal'S language abllltY-"l ”6 includes the ability to read in the individual's overall language ability and emphasizes that the individual's writing progress depends on reading experience. Britton specifically addresses theissue of Writing .progressand its relationship to reading experience ingthe -last ChaPter of Language and Learning (1972). Here he explores the changes 3" indiVidual, as writer, undergoes in a lifetime of reading. One of these Changes, according to Britton, is an increase in the individual's sen51tiVity to the needs of an audience and to the expectations of a Writer. In Language and Learning, ~“Bwrittgn explores the writing of three of h' . . ls stuclents to show the importance of students' assuming the role Of re . . ader throughout their writing development. Britton's fifteen-year- lung” Shh-Ade. PP‘q-q. my v ,‘ A . y‘ ”2 ‘PHI on. e.” "int "W-n- . ‘.“_‘A E . K‘We-C an“; 26 old who had written a piece entitled "The Oldest Person I Know" chose a third-person point of view even though she was the protagonist. According to Britton, the piece was written for an audience of a literary competition; the girl had concluded that third person was more appropriate than first person when writing for a wider audience. Her assumption came from reading third person fictionalized works. The assumption was faulty, but nevertheless useful. The student experienced the third-person form. Only through extensive reading and testing of point of view, according to Britton, will she come to understand the dynamics of the relationship between writer, point of view and reader. Britton concludes that the experience, including the mistake, was important: But we must regard these as growing pains, for it is important that a writer's mode of writing should come to be influenced by what he reads: there is a kind of sad stagnation about the poetry written by an adolescent who fills whole exercise books with his (her) poetry but rarely, if ever, reads the work of another poet. (p. 26) Britton discovers a more particular effect of reading upon Writing in the samples of two other students. Clare, age thirteen, “”8 Voluminous pieces in high-flown diction. She had adapted her Style from the extensive reading of women's magazine stories. Accord- ing ‘30 Britton, her experience as audience of these glossy pieces led her to cOnclude that a writer's audience is most receptive to this Particular style. As she grew out of the stage of women's magazines, She relinquished this style and adapted others: All that sustained effort cannot, however, have been wholly wasted: perhaps she began to learn something of how to handle 19118 stretches of narrative, perhaps she merely gained a k1nd of technical fluency. (p. 261) l t -\.- ’1‘ Ooh. .h h 27 Brittxon suggests that Clare probably would learn, through reading and testing of style, the importance of different styles of writing to different audiences. Another of Britton's students, a sixteen-year-old, voraciously read lJylan Thomas' stories; she soon began to adapt his style. One of her pieces began: I lived in a slum, a smothering sunless smoke-smitten slum in which my house was hunched, a crippled deformity. Its eyes were perpetually closed with moth eaten curtains and though they reflected the drama of the streets they gave no inkling to its inner secrets--secrets of sleep . . . (p. 261) At fiizst, it appears that Britton's student has simply mimicked Thomass' style without allowing her own style to develop. However, accorxting to Britton, she benefited in two ways from experimenting with lfis style: Looking at her world through Dylan Thomas' spectacles was a ‘way of eventually extending her view of it: as the balance righted itself, she found her voice again, but richer for the eXperiment of using his. Trying other people's voices may :for the adolescent be a natural and necessary part of the Ixrocess of finding one's own. (pp. 261-262) Britton atrgues that the development of a person's voice is contingent uponbeing;at the receiving end of another's voice communication. StUdents' reading experiences can influence their growth as writers. “Lina Shaughnessy looks more directly at the relationship b . . etween Writer and reader and argues that through the reading ex ° . . Periencea’ students come to understand all aspects of that relationship. Shau . guess), argues that student writers should play the role of readers not t ' - . . . . o lulltate style and not to find ideas for writing. These 3P1) ro a Cruas 'to learning writing are product rather than process oriented: 5/! 28 That is, they pose tasks for the student that require him to look at a piece of writing as something that contains meaning, as a pound of sugar might be said to contain its weight or a word in the dictionary is perceived to bg_its meaning.1 The problem with product—oriented approaches, according to Shaughnessy, is tfliéit the student reader is made aware of the separation between writxexr and text. The importance of reading in learning to write, Shaughnessy argues,rests with the student's understanding of the writtar's intentions, reader's responses and the relationship of both writer and reader to text: This alienation of the student writer from the text robs him of important insights and sensitivities, for it is only when he can observe himself as a reader and imagine that a writer is behind the print of the page that he understands his own situation as a writer. (The student who refers to the author of The Great Gatsby as "they" is already in difficulty with the text.) (p. 223) AccOI‘ding to Shaughnessy any attempt by student or instructor to sePaIVIte the functions of writer, text and reader can only be detri- mentxil to the learning experience of student reader/writer. Shaughnessy argues that in the role of reader, students can Imagine the writer's intent and discover the writer's rationale for the choirne of words, structure and perspective. At the same time, the Student becomes sensitive to the range of reader responses to a text and 2“flare of what generated those responses: "Using the text as his 1: - . . . . . erraln, he tries, in short, to map the thinking of the writer and f‘ . . 1na'llyto see in relation to that map where he,as one reader, travelled" (p. 223). A writing approach to reading, she explains, emphasizes t he I“tiader's acknowledgment of responses, an understanding of them and an . . . exiPloration of what in the writer, reader and text created them. 29 These insights make the student a more careful writer and a more critical reader. As a writer, he must think about the kind of responses his words are likely to arouse; as a reader his growing critical stance encourages him to raise questions about what he reads, to infer the author's intent, and even to argue with him. And, of course, these same critical skills can be turned upon himself when he writes, for the process of writing utterly blurs the line that many college programs draw between reading and writing . . . (p. 223). The student gains valuable knowledge and experience in the audience role of reader.19 Though she vehemently supports the use of reading in writing instruction, Shaughnessy does not outline in Errors and Expectations the nature of that material. However, in an interview posthumously published in The English Journal (1980), she argues for the use of fiction in a beginning composition course where students are writing non-fiction. Here again, she emphasizes a process-oriented approach and suggests the use of short stories and novels, particularly short stories: You can also call attention to the structures of stories or of books. The story is an excellent form for the basic writing student because it is short and it is much more tightly structured than the novel. You have to be constantly asking the student not just to get caught up in the narrative and the language, but to work also on the matter of structure. I also think that working with books instead of essays is helpful. We tend to subject students to the most instructured and the most difficult kinds of structures to derive when we study the personal essay--Orwell, for example, or James Baldwin. 0n the other hand, if we take a book and don't require that the student read it, blow by blow, but ask the student to tell us what the different chapters are, we are asking him to attend to structure . . . .And what I think you ought to do is, again, let the student in, in countless ways, on the fact that these things don't just happen. They are highly crafted, deliberate things. Then students can begin working on their own ways, forming their own structures.2 30 According to Shaughnessy, students do not copy the structure of the reading material, but attempt to understand the writer's intent in using a particular structure; students also determine the importance of that structure to them as readers. Then, the students "can begin working in their own ways, forming their own structures" (p. 33). Shaughnessy's emphasis on a process-oriented approach to using fiction in a writing class is important, since the reluctance to using fiction has stemmed from the assumption that the approach can only be PTOduct oriented.21 Indeed, most studies supporting fiction as reading material have emphasized a product-oriented approach. These supporters 0f fiction in the writing class propose limiting methods that focus on iSolated exercises; these methods strive for specific results that are ‘uyt directly related to the overall growth of the student as writer. TheEmethods call for students to write critical responses to works of ititerature, to learn rhetoric and style through imitation, and to diSeuss fiction in order to generate theme topics. As the methods irldicate and as Shaughnessy notes in Errors and Expectations, these thstories and methodologies separate the students from the text they are reading by emphasizing the meaning and style of the text as if it had anexistence of its own, apart from the author or reader. Robert L. Eschbacher, in "Lord Jim, Classical Rhetoric and the Freshman Dilemma" (1963) argues in favor of using fiction as a source f0? critical analysis and as a model for rhetorical devices. Eschbacher proPoses to set up the perfect freshman course as the marriage of literature and composition: ". . . the course as commonly taught should fusG solid composition with a solid introduction to literature--and 31 establish literature in the freshman mind as a vehicle of truth 23 He encourages written critical comparable or superior to nonfiction." responses (which he categorizes under the rhetorical technique of argumentation) and teaches rhetorical principles-~definition, classification, diversion and comparison/contrast--through literary models. In the critical response section of the course, Eschbacher uses lord Jim to set up an argument that the students must debate in a critical essay. In the argument exercise he assigns questions like: Does Jim redeem himself in Patusan? If so, from what? If not, why not? The students must also defend their opinion in class discussion. Eschbacher finds that these critical papers bring up some social and ethical problems relevant to Lord Jim. The approach results in a variety of opinions, vehemently supported: "It can be vigorous, not to say violent, and I then devote the final ten minutes on the novel to an oracular summary of my own interpretation--and discussion continues in the hall" (p. 97). According to Eschbacher, his main goal in this Part of the course is to prime students in the argumentative method and t0 encourage them to make a commitment to literature. Eschbacher's approach to teaching the rhetorical techniques ii; similar to the critical analysis section of the course. In discussion and essays, students explore the rhetoric of Lord Jim: the manly'uses of the key word romantic; the classification of minor charac- terS; comparison/contrast of sections; and the process of the novel. ESchbacher believes that in studying the rhetorical techniques, StUdents come to a real understanding of the novel, to an appreciation 32 of tire novel's aesthetics and to an increased perceptiveness of literature and life: The student who has defined romantic (or perhaps verified its lack of firm definition in Lord Jim) has come far toward a real understanding of the novel. He has examined the text closely, and if definition has been well taught, he has seen almost automatically one major method of organizing a subjective pastime. . . . Again, the very best students will not exhaust this vein [comparison/contrast] which even the worst can mine with some profit. Here is one of the many questions which might be suggested to close this essay with a significant literary and moral judgment: In which half of the novel does Jim merit the reader's greater sympathy? After the approach outlined here, problems such as this become much more malleable--and much less a subject of sentimentalism. . . . This essay, like those to follow demands serious thinking on some of the most basic issues of the student's own life, in the light of a great modern novel. (p. 96) In his conclusion, Eschbacher emphasizes that the critical and rhetorical goals of his freshman composition course can be achieved by using other novels, as well as drama, short stories, satires and criticism. Almost every aspect of Eschbacher's approach emphasizes the importance of understanding fiction through critical response and rhetorical identification; his analysis of this approach, however, does not sufficiently show how and why this method develops the student's writing style. Only his critical exercises seem somewhat directed at COntributing to the student's writing development; his students critically analyze to discover some of the basic issues of life. By exPloring past experiences, students can learn to better communicate in their non-fiction prose; in a beginning composition course, the student's world is supposedly the subject. But students in Eschbacher's composi- tion course do not write personal, descriptive pieces or arguments on 33 issues directly related to their lives. They are never given the opportunity to express the ways literature has enriched their lives. Students write about literature only, instead of using literature as a vehicle for understanding their own lives in preparation for writing about their lives. Eschbacher's emphasis on rhetorical techniques is just as limiting; his approach helps students identify techniques in books instead of having them look at the reasons a writer uses these techniques for the purpose of communicating to a reader. In general, literature and composition vie for the top spot in Eschbacher's "composition” course, and literature wins out because it is "a vehicle of truth comparable or superior to nonfiction." Students in Eschbacher's classroom are more likely to worship literature than to learn from it. J.W. Patrick Creber in Sense and Sensitivity (1965) and 5. Leonard Rubinstein in "Composition: A Collision with Literature" (1966) provide theories and methodologies for reading literature that are more clearly in tune than Eschbacher's with the student writer's needs. Both believe that the reading process exercises the student's imagination in the same way that writing does; therefore, reading literature is a way of validating the student's perceptual understanding of the surrounding world. Creber isolates reading and writing as forms of comprehension in which the imagination is at work. He argues that the teacher of reading and writing is responsible for creating an atmosphere in which the student's imagination can grow; this atmosphere is one in which the student extensively reads and writes: An essential part of the discipline of English teaching should be to make some attempt at a rigorous scrutiny of such 34 a concept as imagination. The main purpose of this book is to outline such a systematic coursecMFimaginative work, and if I begin by drawing on the theory and practice of poets and novelists to illustrate the argument, a partial justification for this must be that we are trying to create the conditions in the classroom where our pupils can be poets and novelists, in posse if not in esse, just as, in the laboratory, they are chemists or botanists or entomologists.24 Creber emphasizes that when students read literature, their writing comes naturally out of their perceptions and imaginations, rather than out of an exercise demanded of them. By introducing reading in the composition class, teachers create situations directly related to the students' ”field of experience," not alien to it. According to Creber, when students read literature they become involved in the lives of another; through this involvement they utilize their perceptions and imagination in preparation for the act of writing: The work is now seen as having a moral aim, for it is here that one seeks to encourage that involvement in the life of others, generally by means of literature, which is the most important part of English. Not only this, but the imagination has an important part to play in enabling the less intelligent children to grasp truths which, if expressed abstractly, would baffle them. (p. 17) Literature according to Creber can teach students about areas of life they don't understand or reawaken in students undeveloped parts of their own lives. Literature can demonstrate to the students that they don't have to be ashamed of "deeper feelings . . . idiosyncrasies of taste and absurd aberrations from the assumed norm" (pp. 19-20). By cultivating the student's capacity for empathy, literature prepares the student for the writing process. Writing is an activity which calls 35 for "imaginative projection, which involves in part a projection of one's self, but also calls into play the exploration of other's exper- iences, other's attitudes, other states of mind" (p. 19). Students can learn of this "other" world through exposure to literature. Rubinstein proposes a similar methodology for reading litera- ture in the composition classroom; he suggests that instructors use literature to evoke discussion, develop the imagination and show how assertions are made responsible by example: "The function of the teacher is to make the need for discovery crucial."25 The job of the instructor, Rubinstein notes, is to move the student from an abstract, unclear reaction to a literary work, to a solid, clear and expansive under- standing of the text, the writer's intentions and the student reader's life. Rubinstein's purpose is twofold: to develop writing ideas through exposure to literature and to show the student how writers validate their ideas: "The instructor is concerned with the validity of ideas, not with the morality of ideas" (p. 83). Rubinstein's classroom methodology does not involve lecture, teacher intereference or rhetoric instruction. Instead, he encourages "discussion . . . over lecture, discovery over imposition, dialectic over rhetoric" (p. 85). Rubinstein outlines his methods by showing the way he teaches Ernest Hemingway's "A Clean Well-Lighted Place" in a composition course. Students are posed questions that determine Hemingway's intentions, the meaning of the text, the structure conveying that meaning and the student's opinions on the ideas expressed in the story. Included in the list of questions are: 36 Does a lack of belief in order and purpose in life lessen one's need for order and purpose in life? Is this problem real in your life? Do you believe that pain and death have purpose and plan? Does Hemingway? Is there a difference between being victorious in life, and being undefeated? Which one of these states is possible to man and admirable in men? What does Hemingway mean by dignity in the story? What do you mean by dignity? (pp. 80—83) Rubinstein emphasizes that the students do not have to understand the story, or even have an opinion about what they do understand, before they come to the classroom. He believes that it is important for the students to discover together and strongly discourages student use of critical articles and the teacher's imposition of a single interpretation. The key to the success of his method is the pure, untainted discovery of ideas that helps the students interpret their own worlds in preparation for the writing task. Unlike Eschbacher's students, Rubinstein's use literature as a means of reaching out and understanding their own worlds so they can write about these worlds. The major arguments of such theorists as Rubinstein, Creber, Suahghnessy and Britton is that reading belongs in the writing classroom and that literature should comprise the students' repertoire of reading material. However, all these supporters of literature in the writing classroom emphasize that only certain methods can directly and sub- stantially influence the student's writing development. All agree that 37 these methods should be process rather than product oriented. The methods which they describe as process-oriented are those that emphasize the importance of the literary work to the students' understanding of their own worlds and concentrate on the students' awareness of the writer's and reader's roles. The purpose of this study is to provide another, but related, rationale and methodology for using fiction, especially short fiction in the college composition class. I propose that when students read fiction, they become part of a communication process that involves the voice of the writer. As the students read, the writer's voice conveys messages to the student through the text; these messages are a product of the writer's vision or view of the world. Students respond to the writer's voice during the interpretive stage of reading and use their voice in that interpretation. This voice is the same voice, in a different role, as the one students use during writing. The methodology based on this theory involves extensive reading of short fiction in order to develop the student's voice in preparation for writing. During the course of the term, students are made aware of the existence of voice in a literary work, are given exercises to develop their own voice, and are encouraged to follow the development of their and their colleagues' voices.26 38 NOTES 1J.W. Patrick Creber, Sense and Sensitivity (London: Univ. of London Press, 1965), p. 76. (Further references to this and other works in this chapter will be indicated in the text by page number.) 2Creber deals specifically with pre-college students; however, in his fourth chapter, he emphasizes that his general statements regarding listening and comprehension, reading and writing, are applicable to instruction on all levels. When students listen, comprehend, read or write, he argues, they use their imagination. That imagination comprehendsideasirlthe context of the individual's past experiences. The culture and age of the students determine the nature of their past experiences. The imagination of an older student, Creber notes, may translate ideas differently than that of a younger student (Sense, pp. 73-83). 3The term "knowledge" is used in this study to mean any transference that occurs in the student from the reading to the writing process. In the next chapter, this knowledge will be identified as voice. 4According to Creber, reading stirs the imagination that students use in writing. Louise Rosenblatt in Reader, Text and Poem (1978) also acknowledges the function of imagination:”[Imagination:] The capacity of the human being to evoke images of things or events not present, and even never experienced, or which may never have existed, is undoubtedly an important element of art . . . .Yet this imaginative capacity is not limited to art but is basic to any kind of verbal communication" (p. 32). ' SJames Britton, Lagguage and Learnigg (1970), Development of Writing Abilities, 11-18 (1975); James Moffett, Teaching the Universe of Discourse (1968); Mina Shaughnessy, Errors and Expectations (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1977). 6When I refer to the writing class throughout this study, I am talking of the non-fiction writing class, unless otherwise indicated. The use of non-fiction readings in the non-fiction writing class has also spurred some opposition. I feel that the reading of certain non- fiction pieces serves an important role in the writing class, but one different from the reading of fiction. The use of non-fiction, however, is the subject of another study. 7Nila B. Smith, "Language: A Prerequisite for Meaningful Reading," in Reading and the Language Arts, pp. 3-12. 8Wayne C. Booth, "Interrelationships of Reading and Writing," in Reading and the Language Arts, pp. 113-122. 39 9Oliver Andresen, "Interrelating Reading and Writing in Grades Nine through Fourteen," in Reading and the Language Arts, pp. 131-140. 10William D. Page, "The Author and the Reader in Writing and Reading," Research in the Teaching of English, 8, no. 2 (1974),pp. 170-183. 11Page's theory outlining the active role of reader and writer in the reading process indicates that the reader is not a passive receiver. The reader must not only internalize the writer's message, but translate it in terms of the reader's frame of experience. The same constructive activity occurs when an individual begins the writing process. Here the individual must formulate concepts in terms of the individual's frame of experience. When the writer puts pen to paper, these concepts have begun to crystallize. Indeed, Page's theory provides a sound argument showing the way reading complements the writing process. 12James L. Calhoun, "The Effect of Analysis of Essays in College Classes in Reading and Writing Skills," DAI, 32 (1971), 1971A (Boston Univ.). 13Peter Evanechko, "An Investigation of the Relationships between Children's Performance in Written Language and their Reading Ability," Research in the Teachigg of English, 8, no. 3 (1974), pp. 315- 326. 14Julia Falk, "Language Acquisition and the Teaching and Learning of Writing," College English, 41, no. 4 (1979), pp. 436-437. 15In her College English article, Falk writes, "The implication about the importance of reading experiences for the learning of writing will hold only if the quality of reading is extensive and perhaps only if the reading preparation for a writing assignment incorporates the principle of homogeneity with respect to the material read" ("Language Acquisition," p. 438). During a lecture in Fall, 1979, to the English department writing staff, Michigan State University, Falk was asked whether the use of fictional reading material instead of essays could facilitate non-fiction writing acquisition. She acknowledged that the use of fiction could achieve the same results, but emphasized again the importance of extensive reading material. 16In the same section, Falk notes that writing acquisition, like language acquisition,is holistic: "Language is not acquired through the Inastery of separate 'skills'." In language acquisition, a child does ‘not.first master the sound and then combine the sounds to produce Ineaning: "Both sounds and meanings are learned together, along with information about the occasions on which it is appropriate to use the formland the type of response people will make when the form is used" (P'Language Acquisition," p. 439). Similarly, written language is BEE. acquired by learning isolated aspects of form and structure. This fact 145 a good argument for the use of reading (a process which unites 4O meaning and form). When students read, they don't consciously acknow- ledge the importance of a comma or a particular syntax; instead they subconsciously internalize the situational context for that comma or that particular syntax at the same time that they internalize the meaning of the text. When students read, they don't consciously ; separate meaning, form and situational context. Enough absorption of ' the dynamic combination, then, can result in the students' effective combination of meaning and form in their writing. 17James Britton, "Progress in Writing," in Explorations in Children's Writing, ed. Eldonna L. Everetts (Urbana: National Council of Teachers of English, 1970), p. 21. 18Mina P. Shaughnessy, Errors and Expectations (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1977), p. 223. 19Frank Smith in Understanding Reading (1978) does not directly address the importance of reading to writing instruction. However, his theories of reading and writing roles suggest the importance of placing the student writer in the reader's role. According to Smith, the roles are interdependent and similar: ”It might be said that a book is comprehended (from the writer's point of view at least) when the reader's predictions mirror the writer's intentions at all levels" (Understanding Readigg [New York: Holt, 1978], p. 171). The writer's intentions vary, according to Smith: a textbook writer leads the reader Socratically through information; a mystery author deliberately leads the reader to certain inappropriate predictions in order to create the surprise twist at the end. Similarly, readers have intentions, accord- ing to Smith. All readers have personal interests, purposes and expectations that they bring to the reading act; these shape reader response. Smith explains that readers use their experiences (with life or previous reading encounters) to make sense out of the writer's intent. Smith's outline of the writer's intentions and the reader's intentions and predictions indicate that a student's encounter with reading can help that student understand the relationship between writer and reader, a relationship that the student will again form as a writer. 20Jeanne W. Halpern and Dale Mathews, "Helping Inexperienced Writers: An Informal Discussion with Mina Shaughnessy," The Egglish Journal, 69, no. 3 (1970), pp. 32-37. 21E.D. Hirsch and Donald Murray are the two most vehement opposers to reading literature in the non-fiction writing classroom. At the core of their opposition, is the belief that the writing approach to reading can only be product oriented. They assume that students read literature in a composition class in order to imitate style and/or gather writing ideas. Hirsch in Philosophy of Composition (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1976) asserts that composition teachers use literature because they are ignorant and "know a lot more about literature than the craft of prose" (p. 141). Assuming that the instructor's intent is to teach style, he argues against this instructional method because the 41 study of style in literature is the fusion of form and content whereas learning to write assumes the separation of linguistic form and content: While both subjects may make students aware of style, they do so in conflicting ways. The study of style in literature is a study of the fusion of form with content. But learning how to write implies just the opposite assumption; it assumes the separation of linguistic form and content. (p. 141) Donald Murra ax makes a similar argument in opposition to the reading of fiction _in a composition—Elass. In A Writer Teaches Writing (Boéfbn: Houghton:Miff1in:mI968)T ‘Murray contends that teachers of literature fEél more secure w1th“f1ction“in the writing.class,ihecause the method is less time consuming than giv1ng and grading writing assignments from _mw -.~ w1th1n the classroom m. iln the starkest application of this theory, students read and §discuss for a number of weeks given literary masterpieces. jDuring and especially at the end of a unit, students are asked jto write an interpretive critical essay . . . . the resultant essay is evaluated for its content overwhelmingly. (p. 75) Shaughnessy's argument for a process-oriented reading instruction in a writing classroom is the soundest argument countering Hirsch's and Murray's opposition. Reading in a writing classroom need not be product oriented. 22Perhaps the least product-oriented of these methodologies is the one that calls for the discussion of fiction to generate theme topics. As will be noted later, the act of reading places students directly in touch with their experiences, thereby creating an atmosphere conducive to writing production (see Chapter IV of this study). However, this activity should not occur in a vacuum, but together with exercises that emphasize the roles of reader and writer and the importance of rhetoric and style to those roles. 23Robert L. Eschbacher, "Lord Jim, Classical Rhetoric and the Freshman Dilemma," in Teaching Freshman Composition, ed. Gary Tate and Edward P. Corbett (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1967), p. 94. 24 Sense and Sensitivity, p. 12. 25S. Leonard Rubinstein, "Composition: A Collision with Literature," in Teaching_§reshman Composition, p. 85. 26The theory of voice communication is developed in Chapter III; this theory is supported by Mary Louise Pratt's discussion of the relationship between speech acts and literature (Toward a Speech Act Theory of Literary Discourse [Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press, 1977]). The theory of message conveyance from author to reader and the reader's subsequent interpretation of the text is based on Rosenblatt's discussion of the interpretive stage of reading in Reader, Text, and Poem. Finally, my definition of voice, as indicated in the next chapter, is indebted to John Hawkes' Voice Project, conducted in the late sixties. CHAPTER II VOICE Before looking at voice communication in written and verbal a discourse and its implications for a composition course that uses fictionalized reading material, the term vgigg_should be defined. Though composition and reading theorists have not fully defined the voice that can be heard in written and verbal discourse, many have acknowledged its presence and attempted to identify some of the voice properties of discourse. Such critics as John Hawkes, Walter J. Ong, S.J., Richard Hoggart, William Labov, Robert Butler and John Schultz suggest that voice is related to the writer's identity and personality. Hawkes' ”The Voice Project," (1966-1967), Ong's "Voice as Summons for Belief" (1962) and Hoggart's Reith Lectures (1971) explore voice as the vehicle through which an individual communicates something about the self.1 Labov, in his study of the narratives of South Central Harlem children (1976), discusses an important voice prOperty of discourse: narrative activity.2 Butler's study of the elderly life review process (1963) reveals a connection between the individual's desire to under- stand the self and the onset of narrative activity: that connection is another affirmation that narrative activity is a voice property of discourse.3 Schultz's story workshop theory (1978) attempts to identify two other voice pr0perties of discourse: message and style.4 Implied in the work of all these critics is that voice is a reflection of the 42 43 writer's personality and that narrative activity, message and style are voice properties of discourse. Elements of Voice No theorist or composition instructor will deny the importance of developing voice in learning to write. However, a definition of voice has eluded scholars for years. The concept is foreboding because the term is abstract, intangible.S Readers and listeners can hear the writer's/speaker's voice. The voice, therefore, must be a medium that carries or transmits something. But from where does it come and what conditions it? Hawkes in his discussion of the Voice Project, Ong in The Barbarian Within and Hoggart in the Reith Lectures argue that an individual's personality or interiority is one element that shapes voice. A second element, according to these critics, is the role chosen for a piece of discourse. In his discussion of the Voice Project (1966-1967), which was conducted with five freshman English classes at Stanford University,6 Hawkes highlights the writer's personality as the most evident element of voice: We wanted the student to know that the sound of his voice conveys something of his personality; that his personal intonation might well relate to the dictions and rhythms of his writing; that a professional writer has a kind of total presence that can be perceived and responded to as authorial "voice" . . . (pp. 95-97) Hawkes explains that project (classroom) leaders entered the experi- ment with the assumption that voice reflects something of the individual's 44 self; voice is an indicator of the characteristics of the individual's personality. These leaders also believed that students would learn the meaning and importance of voice only if they saw the connection between voice and self, voice and personality. Successful writing could then emerge if the students realized that their personality is reflected in their writing. Recognizing the written voice as intangible, Hawkes assumed a connection between the written and spoken voice. He then encouraged students to identify personality behind the spoken voice. That personality, he informed them, was also behind the written voice: it is extremely difficult to help the student to arrive at an actual comprehension of the writing voice as single, palpable, real. It is far easier to respond to the speaking voice . . . .In other words until recently it had not occurred to me to attempt to work directly and diversely with the relationship between the "visceral" speaking voice of a person and his writing voice as it emerges from the page. (13- 92) Project leaders emphasized the connection between voice and personality together with the connection between oral and written discourse. The project's aims reflect this dual emphasis: 1) To compare qualities of personality revealed in a person's speech with corresponding qualities evident in writing; 2) To enable students to read aloud and listen back to their writing in order to become sensitive to changes in the role of the voice; 3) To allow students to "talk out" certain materials they had written in order to discover new ideas and attitudes; 4) To allow students to record and study the speech of others in order to discover the connection between voice and personality; 4S 5) To compare the qualities of a speaker's voice audible in a tape recording with the qualities evident in a transcript of the recording; 6) To allow students to hear the voice of others in their interpretation of others' writing. (pp. 99-102) The aims were achieved through oral discourse and predominately non- fiction written discourse. Because the connection between voice and self is more evident in oral discourse, project leaders used tape recorders throughout the course. In this way, students could hear their speech and the speech of others; they were also encouraged to identify the personality of the speaker heard on the tape recorder: One student went so far as to document the life and personality of a friend by collecting tapes of her speech in a variety of situations which she then compared to her formal written compositions, examination papers and personal letters. (p. 100) At the same time that the students learned to recognize voice in the tape recording of oral speech, they were given written exercises to develop their voice in writing. All oral and written exercises were highly personal and autobiographical. The most valuable outgrowth of the successful Voice Project was a workable definition of voice and its importance to the writing act. Project leaders discovered that voice was meaningful and useful to the students. Their understanding of the importance of voice to good writing and their awareness of the ways personality shapes voice can help the students grow as writers. Hawkes' emphasis throughout his study of voice is on the first element of voice: the personality identifiable in oral and written 46 discourse. Ong in "Voice as Summons for Belief," places the same importance on personality as an element of voice. In a chapter from The Barbarian Within (1962), Ong explains that voice emerges from the individuals inner self: Voice is the least exterior of sensible phenomena because it emanates not only from the physical but also from the ~divided psychological interior of man and penetrates to another physical and psychological interior where, as we have seen, it must be re-created in the imagination in order to live. (13- 60) Voice is the exterior expression of one's interiority. As a result, Ong emphasizes, the voice assumes the characteristics of that self. A reader's response to a writer's voice in a literary work, according to Ong, is an acknowledgment that contact between reader and writer has been made; such a contact signals communication and communication signals the existence of a literary work. Ong defines a literary work as a discourse, a series of words, something which is said or spoken through a particular voice. This voice, according to Ong, makes possible an I-thou relationship between writer and reader:7 Any discussion of literature and belief must at some point enter into the mystery of voice and words. In a sense every one of man's works is a word. For everything that man makes manifests his thought. A dwelling or a spear tip communicates even when communication is not particularly intended. A building or a tool, we say, "shows" thought. In this, it is a kind of word, a saying of what is in one's mind. . A literary work can never get itself entirely disassociated from this I-thou situation and the personal involvement which it implies. For a literary work to exist in the truest sense, it does not suffice that there be code marks, which we know as letters printed on paper. A drawing can exist on paper, in space, in a way in which a literary work cannot. A drawing can be assimilated in an instant, at a glance. For a literary work to be what it really is, words must move in sequence, one after another, in someone's consciousness. The work must be read or heard, re-created in terms of communication touching an existent person or persons over a stretch of time. (pp. 49—53) In ll F) r" f“? ’4‘ r) ("'1 47 All writers, Ong explains, use their voice as a means of entering into another in order to communicate something about themselves. The voice carries the personality of the writer to the reader.8 In a literary work this communication is accomplished through the guise of characters. ". . . insnuflla creation the author does not communicate directly but through a kind of covering, a disguise, fictions persons or characters, who are more or less evident and who speak his works" (p. 53). Hoggart in his 1971 Reith Lectures also recognizes the importance of communicating one's interiority during writing; he identifies the communication medium not as 191232 but as tone (style). One element of tone, says Hoggart, is the writer's personality: "Finding a tone to talk with begins with finding one that seems right to and for us" (p. 713). In any form of disCourse, he explains, we must be ourselves in order to create the tone intrinsic to our written or oral speech.9 If we have difficulties in writing, he continues, we are avoiding ourselves: It follows that when we are in difficulties during writing of this kind, we are likely to be avoiding ourselves as much as others. When we start cutting corners we are avoiding the risk--then felt to be high-~of stumbling on some truth about ourselves. (p. 717) The "truth about ourselves" is the essence of what Ong calls our interiority, of what Hawkes calls our personality. The major emphasis in Hoggart's lectures is the way we come to develop a tone (style) of writing distinctly our own, one that exhibits our personality. Hoggart's explanation of the way tone emerges in our writing is similar to Ong's discussion of the way voice operates. According to Hoggart, the tone of our writing develops as we strive to 48 express our innermost self; we use our tone to "get in touch with" others: It's a double process. At the same time, one is trying to learn more about one's own personality below the disguise offered by its defences and one is also trying to find a style to express it. One feels a sort of isolation, a referring of everything back to one's self, which is not particularly pleasant. Yet we have to go that way if we are to speak to others better. We have to go that way so as to find a style, both for ”expressing ourselves” and for being "in touch with" others. (p. 713) Part of the purpose of writing is to reach others; we reach others by trying to understand and to communicate to ourselves. We understand ourselves by exploring our personality and by reaching out to express that self to others. The act of writing, according to Hoggart, is an act of discovery: We hope that this effort, this sort of exploring, will help us reach more convincing ways of speaking to each other. It is therefore true in the end to say that part of the purpose of writing is to reach others: not to sell them anything or persuade them, but to be quite simply in touch. It follows that we best speak to others when we forget them and concen- trate on trying to be straight towards our experience, in the hope that honestly seen experience becomes exchangeable. At this point the two themes--speaking to yourself and speaking to each other--come together. They are not two directions; they are one and inextricable. (p. 716) Through the tone of our writing, we can express our innermost self to another. According to Hawkes, Ong and Hoggart, to engage in a discourse, to read, write or speak, we use a voice unique and peculiar to us. We cannot engage in any discourse activity without using our voice. The use of voice signals the beginning of a discourse activity. Even when we read a piece written by another, Ong argues, we hear ourselves super- imposed upon the writer's voice. Ong argues that two individuals reading 49 aloud the same passage written by a third personwill convey different versions of the writer's voice to the listener: each reader is speaking with a different voice, a different perception of the passage being read. The writer's voice can be heard, but as the reader repeats the words heard and translates (interprets) these words into the reader's own frame of experience, the reader's voice is activated. The reader, according to Ong, hears the author from the perspective of the reader's interiority: As he composes his thoughts in words, a speaker or writer hears these words echoing within himself and thereby follows his own thoughts, as though he were another person. Conversely a bearer or reader repeats within himself the words he hears and thereby understands them, as though he were himself two individuals. This double and interlocking dialect . provides the matrix for human communication. The speaker listens while the bearer speaks. (p. 51) Since our voice is so much a part of us, this voice is present any time we are part of a communication process. The individual's personality is one element of a person's voice. Another element of voice is the role, the mask, the persona assumed in any discourse activity. According to Ong when we use voice, we are involved in a role-playing situation: ". . . voice demands role— playing." He emphasizes that we play roles in discourse activities in order to discover something about ourselves: "Thus acting a role, realizing in a specially intense way one's identity (in a sense) with a someone who (in another sense) one is not remains one of the most human things to do" (p. 43). Ong uses two examples--Joseph Conrad's captain in The Secret Sharer and the role of an actor--to explain the human need to role play U! (*2 I“) II; 50 and the relationship of role to voice. Conrad's tale is an allegory of human existence, 3 story of every individual in search of self. The stranger in Conrad's tale is the captain's other self; through the course of the tale, the captain struggles to understand this self and in the process enters an I-thou relationship with the stranger. The captain sees himself in the stranger; he sees the role of recluse that he has been playing: In "The Secret Sharer,” that strangely existentialist story from a preexistentialist age, he has secreted on board his ship his double, a symbol of his own interior division and of his alienation from himself. The stranger-double is somehow there in the captain's own cabin because the captain himself feels himself a stranger to himself in his own soul. The same double is party to the captain's conversations with other men. . . . "As . . . I wanted my double [concealed in the cabin] to hear every word, I hit upon the notion of inform- ing him [the visitor] that I regretted to say that I was hard of hearing" (italics added). (p. 52) By externalizing that inner self, by witnessing that role, the captain comes to understand his own fears. Similarly, Ong explains, an actor assumes a role as a way of discovering a connection between that role and the actor's humanity. According to Ong, the actor's role is a reflection of the actor's interiority: Actors are real persons, but they perform not as the persons they are, but as persons they are not. They have at other times worn masks, to show that they are not themselves, but something other. Yet is it not highly indicative that the word for mask, persona (that-through-which-the-sound-comes), has given both to the ancients and to us the word for person? It is as though this ability to take on the role of another shows the actor's own humanity, shows that the other is already within him, and is, indeed, the shadow of his most real self. (p. 54) sion ’hoy S'IHI' Pk nah . 1W» p : 39 . 56.. "U“ 51 An actor who is true to the art regards the role assumed as an exten— sion of the actor, not something alien or foreign to the actor. Writers, like actors and Conrad's captain, Ong explains, assume roles that reflect a part of themselves. In assuming a role, they externalize their innermost self in order to understand that self: Conrad's profoundly symbolic tale is a kind of allegory of human existence. It reveals a rift, a limitation inside our own beings, but a rift which opens its own way to Salvation-- for it is a rift which comes from our bearing vicariously within ourselves the other with whom we must commune, and who must commune with us, too, and thereby compensate for the rift, the limitation, in our persons. The other within must hear all, for he already knows all, and only if this other, this thou, hears, will I_become comprehensible to myself. (pp. 52-53) In the process of externalizing the self through role-playing, writers communicate that self to another. In assuming a role in any discourse activity, then, we use our voice to communicate both with ourselves and with others. A writer's choice of a role for a particular discourse, however, is not made in a vacuum.10 The writer's attitude toward the subject and the writer/audience relationship are two factors that influence this selection.11 The effect of attitude on role selection is evident in just about any form of discourse, literary and non- literary. As long as the writer believes in being honest with the subject, the role chosen will be true to the writer's value system. When role and value system do not conflict, the writer's material is rich in voice. In an out-of-class writing assignment in a college composition course, students were asked to express their views of ch05 52 religion by assuming an appropriate persona. The students chose their role for this particular assignment very deliberately and consciously; they were encouraged to select a mask alien to them. The purpose of the assignment was to show students the relationship between role and attitude in writing. One student, Mark, vehemently opposed to formalized religion, chose the role of a preacher. The finished product was a narrative in which the preacher discussed his views of his religion and congre- gation. Mark, through the mask of the preacher, presented a character extremely narrowminded in his views of people and life. The preacher was a religious extremist whose perception of life was more harmful than beneficial to his congreation; he was also hypocritical. The writer's attitude towards his subject--a combination of sympathy and condemnation-~emerges in the character he chose to role play: I am here to rule you and decide your future. You are my flock and you have sinned. You sin every day of your life. And you can spend your whole life without finding goodness. Life is a trial, a series of sins that you must strive to overcome. At home you must pray; at work you must think only of God. You are bad and you are evil. Pray for yourselves It is Saturday night and I am alone again writing my sermon. The bottle has only a little left in it. I know so few people. My congregation detests me. They do not speak to me after the service. They scorn me for what I tell them in church. But isn't that what they are suppose to hear? Aren't we all evil. They think I am good; they scorn me for my goodness. My bottle needs refilling. The student's piece is rich in voice; in his role, he has been true to his beliefs, to his opinion of formalized religion. The role a writer chooses for a discourse is dependent not only on the writer's attitude towards the subject, but also on the 53 relationship between writer and audience. Donald Hall, in Writing Well (1973), acknowledges the importance of audience in the writing act: The larger the audience we try to reach, the more limited our associations become, and the more circumscribed our room of possibilities. If we are writing for the readers of a big newspaper, we probably do not assume that most of our readers associate April with Chaucer, Browning and Eliot.12 A writer selects a role, consciously or subconsciously, that is true to the writer's relationship to that audience. In a letter to a newspaper editor, the role is that of a crusader; in an argumentative piece for a debating class, the role is that of a persuader; in a textbook essay, the role is that of an informer. The role chosen depends on the relationship that binds writer to audience. As a result of this relationship, the writer must meet the expectations of the audience. The writer/audience relationship has a profound influence on the role chosen and, therefore, the voice of a piece of discourse. In an in-class letter writing assignment, students wrote to a high school friend at another university (Letter 1). They were then asked to address that letter to their father or mother and make appropriate changes, if any (Letter 11). The examination of the two letters written by a freshman, Sue, shows how drastically voice can change as role changes. Sue felt so different towards her audience in Letter 11 that she left out pieces of information that would indicate her true feelings towards her subject matter. Sue chose an informal role for her first letter and a more formal one for her second: 54 Letter No. I My God, Joan do you really believe we are at college. Sometimes it freaks me out. Don't know how to feel. Two weeks into the term, where has the time gone! A lot has happened these past few weeks. I feel as if I am drowning. Sixteen credits is too much--why did I do this to myself? Actually it wouldn't be quite so bad if I didn't have to work so much at Moon's. I love Moon's, but enough is enough. Actually work helps me to forget how I miss all you guys. It also helps to work with someone. Barb and I are studying together right now. She is writing her paper from Com 100 and I am about to give a brief overview of the past three weeks of my life before I start studying. Last week, I saw Bill (my ex); you know he came up here too. Sometimes I think to follow me. I met him at a party held by some common friends of ours. Its always difficult, I know, to see someone that once meant so much, but Bill said some really awful things when we broke up. All I did was cry when I saw him at the party. Thank God, he left. I couldn't. I needed a friend then. God, I hope I never see him again. Letter No. 11 Hi, Mom. It's good to finally take a break and write home. Two weeks into the term and I have been really busy. Sixteen credits is just too much. Actually, it wouldn't be quite so bad if I didn't have to work so much. But that's okay, because I really like Moon's. Actually, Iguess keeping busy is good. I can do a lot if I put my mind to it. Barb and I are working on things together right now. She's writing her paper for Com 100 and before I start my work, I thought I'd give a brief overview of the past few weeks. Last week, I saw Bill Barnes. I met him at a party held by some common friends of ours. It's always difficult to see him and it is hard to avoid him when we have the same friends. He is fine; he likes school and thinks he wants pre-law. That whole family is going to be filled with lawyers one day. But I guess that sort of thing gets passed on. In Letter 11, Sue perceives her role as merely informative. She leaves out any information that somehow would cause her mother to judge her-— 55 good or bad; her mother is a passive receiver of this information. Sue made the role decision on the basis of the identity of her audience and her relationship to that audience. In Letter 1, Sue perceives her audience as giving sympathy and perhaps even advice on a matter that only a peer group member can understand; she sees her role as a seeker of sympathy.13 The voice the reader hears in both these letters is different because the role chosen for each piece is different; the role is different because the relationship between writer and audience has changed. Two important elements of voice, then, are the role chosen for a written piece and the unique personality reflected in that role. However, voice should not be viewed as void of a constant identity. A writer's voice is unique and individual; just as no two personalities are exactly the same, no two voices are exactly the same. If we define 39133 as that which emanates from one's interiority during any discourse activity, then the voice is as constant as that interiority. As certain elements of voice change, the overall makeup of the voice assumes a variety of shapes. The writer's realm of personal experiences, the writer's attitudes towards the material and the writer/audience relationship are constantly changing and shaping the voice in discourse activities. If Mark's defiance of religion lessens with time, his voice will change in a subsequent writing product on the subject. If Sue's relationship with her mother becomes more personal in the future, her voice will change in subsequent letters to her mother. As the individ- ual's personality changes, so too must the voice, the communication medium in any discourse activity. Hawkes acknowledges the connection 56 between voice and self when he notes that the developing voice is crucial to all "human growth and communication" ("Voice Project," p. 90). Voice Properties of Discourse Another way to understand the concept of voice is to identify the voice properties of discourse. In any form of communication, the medium can be identified by certain symbols or outward signs. William F. Thompson in Media 8 Communication (1972) explains that Symbols make communication possible. Our prehistoric man had the image of a tree (Image 1) in his mind. In order to transfer that image to a second man, he employed a symbol by making a stick drawing. . . . The symbol allows us to deal with things that are not immediately accessible. Symbols are particulirly useful in allowing us to deal with abstractions If we regard the oral and written voice as a medium of communication, then it too has outward signs or properties. Among the voice properties of discourse are narrative form, message, and style (struc- ture and language).15 The work of Schultz, Labov, Hoggart, Butler and Hawkes suggests some of these properties. These critics also imply that just as voice is conditioned by the individual's interiority (personality) and the role chosen in discourse, the voice prOperties of discourse are also conditioned by these elements. In narrative activity, we reconstruct and reevaluate past experiences; in so doing, we explore the self. Because we engage in narrative activity as a means of discovering (consciously or uncon- sciously) something about ourselves, the activity signals the presence of voice. William Labov's research of Harlem narratives16 sheds some 57 light on the connection between voice and narrative activity. The narrative is a voice property of discourse because the activity, as Labov explains, is the process of describing an event through sights, sounds and smells; the activity involves a recollection of personal experiences.17 The evaluative segment of the narrative, as Labov defines it, is another indication that voice is present during narrative activity. The evaluation, according to Labov, is the speaker's attempt to understand and communicate the relevance of the experience; evalua- tion is crucial to the rediscovery of self in narrative activity. By both recalling and evaluating personal experience, then, the individual looks inward and reconstructs the past. The individual uses the voice to communicate to another the understanding of that experience. Labov's definition of the narrative suggests the first link between narrative activity and voice: in the narrative activity, voice is the medium through which we evoke experience. According to Labov, oral narrative is a verbal sequence of events which, like the written narrative, is a way of recalling experience: We define narrative as one method of recapitulating past experience by matching a verbal sequence of events which (it is inferred) actually occured. For example, a pre-adolescent narrative: 4 This boy punched me and I punched him and the teacher came in and stopped the fight. O-OU‘SD An adult narrative: 5 a Well this person had a little too much to drink b and he attacked me c and the friend came in d and she stOpped it. -.4 58 In each case we have four independent clauses which match the order of the inferred events. It is important to note that other means of recapitulating these experiences are available which do not follow the same sequence; syntactic embedding can be used: 6 a A friend of mine came in just in time to stop b this person who had a little too much to drink c from attacking me. Narrative, then, is the only way of recapitulating past experience. . . . (pp. 359-360) The subject matter of the narrative is personal experience. The genre is a dramatic form by which the user translates personal experience into a communication medium. During narrative activity, then, the speaker uses the voice. Another part of Labov's work crucial to this study of voice is his discussion of the evaluative portion of the narrative. He concludes that one element of narrative activity is the evaluation of the narrative. The evaluation follows the orientation and complicating action and precedes the resolution and coda. The orientation sets the scene; the complicating action begins the actual experience; the resolution is the conclusion and the coda is the afterthought. The evaluation is the interpretation of the experience. Through the evaluation, according to Labov, the individual probes inwardly and comes to understand the meaning of the narrative both for the speaker and the listener:18 Beginnings, middles, and ends of narratives have been analyzed in many accounts of folklore or narrative. But there is one important aspect of narrative which has not been discussed--perhaps the most important element in addition to the basic narrative clause. That is what we term the 59 evaluation of the narrative: the means used by the narrator to indicate the point of the narrative, its raison d'etre: why it was told, and what the narrator is getting at. There are many ways to tell the same story, to make very different points, or to make no point at all. Pointless stories are met (in English) with the withering rejoinder, "So what?" Every good narrator is continually warding off this question; when his narrative is over, it should be unthinkable for a bystander to say, "So what?" Instead, the appropriate remark would be, "He did?" or similar means of registering the reportable character of the events of the narrative. (p. 366) Evaluation, says Labov, is necessary for both the speaker's and listener's understanding of the experience. Ong would say that this understanding is achieved as the speaker's voice carries this . . . . . . . . 9 evaluat1on from the speaker's 1nter10r1ty to the listener's interiority.l Narrative activity, according to Labov, then, consists of both recall and evaluation; because the activity deals with the reconstruc- tionznulexploration of our experiences, hence ourselves, it is a voice property of discourse. Another critic who defines the narrative much as Labov and suggests the connection between voice and the narrative activity is Robert N. Butler. In "Life Review: An Interpretation of Reminiscence of the Aged," Butler explores the narratives of senior citizens and concludes that the recall and evaluation of past experiences helps the seniors to rediscover their human worth; the activity is a fOrm of life review crucial to the senior's ability to cope with old age and death. According to Butler, the narratives of seniors are highly expressive, that is, they deal with the self, with personal experience. A PSYchologist, Butler concludes that the life review quality of these narratives is one way for the seniors to deal emotionally and physically n .1.- “I." v I ! Hit :1 I Q \- .13 60 with the closing years of their lives: Reviewing one's life, then, may be a general response to crises of various types, of which imminent death seems to be one instance. It is also likely that the degree to which approaching death is seen as a crisis varies as a function of individual personality. The explicit hypothesis intended here, however, is that the biological fact of approaching death, independent of--although possiby reinforced by—- personal and environmental circumstances, prompts life review. (p. 67) One major result of life review, says Butler, is personality reorganization: the sorting out of one's personality in terms of past experiences. As a result of this new sense of self, the seniors can better deal with the approach of death. Butler's structural divisions of life review narratives are similar to Labov's and, like Labov, he emphasizes the importance of the evaluative section. The life review process begins with stray seemingly insignificant thoughts about oneself and one's life history. Next in the life review come dreams and more elaborate and precise thoughts. Sometimes the seniors attempt to deal with present social or Political beliefs as a way of validating their ideas. Eventually, the process evolves into an evaluation of one's life and the worth of that life:20 As the past marches in review it is surveyed, observed, and reflected upon by the ego. Reconsideration of previous experiences and their meanings occur, often with concomittant revised or expanded understanding. . . . In contrast, I conceive of the life review as a naturally occurring universal mental process characterized by the progressive return to consciousness of past experiences, and, particularly, the resurgence of unresolved conflicts; simultaneously, and normally, these revived experiences and conflicts can be surveyed and reintegrated. (pp. 66, 68) tr“. W.’ .1'. -. f... 61 The evaluation, according to Butler, is crucial to the whole narrative activity. The evaluation completes the formation in the seniors of an ego-identity, an identity important to their ability to cope with the onset of old age. The narratives and evaluations of those narratives during the life review process of the elderly and the developing narratives of Labov's Harlem children reveal the voice of both age groups. Voice is evident in the narrative activity through which the writer/speaker rediscovers self through recollection and evaluation of personal experience. The voice that is evident in both narrative types emanates from the individual's interiority and is shaped by the individual's realm of experience. Narrative activity is a voice pr0perty of discourse because the self is at the center of the narrative process. Through the voice, the writer summons the reader to believe in the narrative expression, to believe in the writer's self.21 The message and style (structure and language) are two other voice properties of discourse.22 Like narrative ability, message and style are shaped by the writer's/speaker's past experiences and personality: the personal background of the teller. Hawkes' "The Voice Project," Schultz's story workshop, Labov's work with the Harlem Children and Hoggart's Reith Lectures all emphasize the importance and function of these two aspects of voice. Hawkes' and Schultz's work identify the connection between message, style and voice; both show the way the student develops these voice properties in a composition cour5e_ Labov suggests this connection by showing ways the social and w c p‘. Id 0 P‘ .- huh (\ ll 62 cultural background of the writer/speaker affect the personality which in turn affect the message and style of the discourse. The way in which the style and message are connected with the writer's voice and, by extension, with the writer's personality is as complicated as the definition of voice. John Hawkes is satisfied in saying that just as the sound of a writer's voice conveys something of his personality, so too must the message, dictions and rhythms of writing: There are three ways of looking at the concept of voice. It is first of all the instrument of speech; in writing it may be taken to mean the summation of style; but also in writing it may be taken to mean the whole presence of the writer—as-writer rather than the writer-as-man. . . . To us, then, "voice" meant . . . (2) the kind of understanding we are able to "hear" in the voice of someone reading aloud. . . We wanted the student to know that the sound of his voice conveys something of his personality; that his personal intonation might well be related to diction and rhythms of his writing. (pp. 91, 95) Hawkes suggests that when an individual speaks or writes, the message conveyed reflects the individual's system of beliefs, understanding/ interpretation of the subject. And the message, together with the language and rhythm of that message, reflects the writer's personality. The message and style, Hawkes implies, are the outward signs of voice. In order to emphasize this connection between voice and message and style, Hawkes consistently used tape recorders in the Voice Project classrooms. He wanted students to "hear" the personality in the message and style of the discourse: "In several school classes the use of the tape recorder was clearly effective in helping students to learn about form and about the functions of language as well as to learn 63 about themselves and their own uses of language" (p. 101). For many students, the tape recorder was their only method of learning to write. In one case, a young black student, Skip, had written only a few times during the term, but was a good listener and criticizer. Slowly, Skip, the writer emerged on tape:"'The fourth of July is for the wight man.’ 'I belief it's a dog eat dog world.‘ 'My daddy never taught me any thing.‘ 'I learned to play basketball and baseball myself with a lotta time and embarrassment'" (pp. 115-116). According to Hawkes, the Voice Project became for Skip a way to learn about the beliefs and language left to him by a society which forced him to listen more than to speak. He learned that what one said (message) and how one said it (style) reflected the individual's personality and background. When Skip criticized other writing, his main criteria became the honesty of style, particularly in language, which indicated the identity and cultural background of the speaker/writer: "He drew upon what he knew about speech to criticize other student's writing" (p. 16). Skip's emphasis on the writer's content and style indicate both are voice prOperties of discourse. John Schultz's story workshop is also based on the premise that the thought processes, language and structure of student's oral and written speech are related to the student's voice. Begun in the late sixties at Columbia, College, Illinois, as an alternative to freshman composition, the story workshop concentrates on developing the student's voice by activating the thought processes. According to Story workshop theory, the student's thought processes, through various Oral and written exercises, can be pared and sharpened until concrete mash-0.!" r4 ('0 64 ideas emerge. As ideas develop, through recollection of personal experiences, the story workshOp director generates activities that show students the ways language and structure can be instruments of the idea, the message: The director will usually begin the session with a verbal recall of tellings, readings, and words from the previous meeting. The workshop recall is not a summary in any sense, but a bringing to life of imagery and events. The director coaches the students whenever needed, so the recalled event "can be seen again, happened now." To emphasize the reinforce- ment function of recall, he may ask such things as "What do you remember that was particularly clear? See it, tell it happening right now.” After recall, the director will ordinarily move the workshop into the area of imaginative play, stirring or evoking imaginative activity through the use of word exercises, word play. . . . The director must use his awareness of every moment of the workshop session to direct that moment toward writing, just as a writer is aware of each word, pause, sentence, and image that is part of the fulfillment of a story. (p. 143) The director generates and shapes the student's imagination through telling, reading and writing. Betty Schiflett, in her discussion of Schultz's story workshop, explains the connection between voice and the message and style of discourse. A student's thought processes, diction, rhythm and structure are wrapped up in what Shiflett calls the student's perceptual powers: the ability to recall images of the past and to concretize those images in oral and written discourse. Writers concretize images by Placing them in a rhythmic structure and employing descriptive language that employs the senses: The workshop utilizes a constantly developing arsenal of word, telling, reading and writing exercises of increasing demand, as the ongoing means of stirring up the student's perceptual powers. . . .as he engages in the oral exercises, ~-.--w- ~ 6S tellings and reading aloud, the student grows in understanding of the use of his perceptions and their accessibility to him in writing. . . . It calls upon the student to extend his powers of curiosity and seeing to extend and "let happen" his play of intelligence and perception, to anticipate, to make leaps of imagination, to begin to get in touch with the movement of story and the vivid, revelatory completeness of image. (pp. 142, 147) According to Schiflett, the use of perceptual powers signals the presence of voice. The persistent coaching in perception eventually results in the student's production of discourse rich in voice, i.e., rich in thought, language and rhythm. In Shiflett's explanation of the theory and practice of story workshop, message and style are once again seen as voice properties of discourse. Implicit in Hawkes and Schultz's theories of voice and the voice properties of discourse is the way the writer's personality shapes these prOperties.23 Labov's research on South Central Harlem narratives indicates that the socio-economic background of speakers can influence the message and style of oral and, by extension, written discourse: Most of the narratives cited here concern matters that are always reportable: the danger of death or of physical injury. These matters occupy a high place on an unspoken permanent agenda. Whenever people are speaking, it is relevant to say "I just saw a man killed on the street." No one will answer such a remark with "So what?" If on the other hand someone says, "I skidded on the bridge and nearly went off," someone else can say, "So what? (That happens to me every time I cross it." In other words, if the event becomes common enough, it is no longer a violation of an expected rule of behavior, and it is not reportable. The narrators of most of these stories were under social pressure to show that the events involved were truly dangerous and unusual, or that someone else really broke the normal rule in an outrageous and reportable way. Evaluative devices say to us: this was terrifying, dangerous, weird, wild, crazy, strange, uncommon, or unusual-~that is, worth reporting. It was an ordinary, play, humdrum, everyday, or run-of-the-mill. (pp. 370-371) ~31 66 For example, in the fight narratives he gathered, the speaker's socio- economic background shaped both style and message; style, in turn, contributed significantly to the message. Certain words in the narrative are repeated and emphasized; the format is argumentative, and the speaker is always at the center of the narrative. Every element of the style contributes to the message of the narrative: self- aggrandizement. And both the message and style are closely linked with the socio-economic background of these children who consistently faced . . 24 danger-of-death Sltuations. The following narratives are taken from Labov's study. Each consists of two parts: setting the scene and defending the prowess of the narrator. Both parts present the narrator in a positive light and both utilize rhetorical techniques that Labov found consistent in black vernacular culture, i.e., argument and ritual insults. These rhetorical techniques contribute to the message of self-aggrandizement: The second narrative is by Larry H., the core member of the Jets whose logic was analyzed in Chapter 5. This is one of three fight stories told by Larry which match in verbal skills his outstanding performance in argument, ritual insults, and other speech events of the black vernacular culture. a An'then, three weeks ago I had a fight with this other dude outside. b He got mad 'cause I wouldn't give him a cigarette. c Ain't that a bitch? (Oh yeah?) d Yeah, you know, I was sittin' on the corner an' shit, smokin' my cigarette, you know e I was high, an' shit. f He walked over to me, g "Can I have a cigarette?" h He was a little taller than me, but not that much. i I said, "I ain't got no more, man," ff 88 hh ii J'J' kk 11 1111 00 PP qq rr 55 It UL! 67 'case, you know, all I had was one left. An' I ain't gon' give up my last cigarette unless I got some more. So I said, "I don't have no more, man." So he, you know, dug on the pack, 'cause the pack was in my pocket. So he said, "Eh man, I can't get a cigarette, man? I mean--I mean we supposed to be brothers, an' shit" So I say, "Yeah, well, you know, man, all I got is one, you dig it?" An' I won't give up my las' one to nobody. So you know, the dude, he looks at me, An' he--I 'on' know-- he jus' thought he gon' rough that motherfucker up. He said, "I can't get a cigarette." I said, "Tha's what I said, my man." You know, so he said, "What you supposed to be bad, an' shit? What, you think you bad_an' shit?” So I said, "Look here, my man, I don't think I'm bad, you understand? But 1 mean, you know, if I had it, you could git it I like to see you with it, you dig it? But the sad part about it, You got to do without it. That's all, my man." So the dude, he 'on' to pushin' me, man. (0h he pushed you?) An' why he do that? Everytime sombody fuck with me, why they do it? I put that cigarette down, An' boy, let me tell you, I beat the shit outa that motherfucker. I tried to kill 'im--over one cigarette! I tried to kill 'im. Square business! After I got through stompin' him in the face, man, I jus' went crazy. An' I jus' wouldn't stOp hittin the motherfucker. Dig it, I couldn't step hittin' 'im, man, 'till the teacher pulled me off 0' him. An' guess what? After all that I gave the dude the cigarette, after all that. Ain't that a bitch? (How come you gave 'im a cigarette?) I 'on' know. I jus} gave it to him. An' he smoked it, too! 68 a When I was in fourth grade—- b no, it was in third grade-- This boy he stole my glove. c He took my glove d and said that his father found it downtown on the ground. (And you fight him?) e I told him that it was impossible for him to find downtown 'cause all those people were walking by and just his father was the only one and found it? So he got all (mad). Then I fought him. I knocked him all out in the street. So he say he give. and I kept on hitting him. Then he started crying and ran home to his father. And the father told him that he ain't find no glove. 5 a hixud~H-:W01fi In the account of the verbal exchange that led up to the fight, Norris is cool, logical, good with his mouth, strong in insisting on his own right. In the second part, dealing with the action, he appears as the most dangerous kind of fighter who "just goes crazy" and "doesn't know what he did." On the other hand, his opponent is shown as dishonest, clumsy in argument, unable to control his temper, a punk, a lame, and a coward. Though Norris does not display the same degree of verbal skill that Larry shows in 2, there is an exact point-by- point match in the structure and evaluative features of the two narratives. (PP. 356-358, 367-368) Labov cites numerous other examples of narratives in which style and message shift in accord with a narrator's experience and perception of self as a result of that experience. Through these examples, he shows the development of verbal skills in educationally disadvantaged Children. But the results of his study can also be used to show the ways voice is evident in these narratives through the message and Style of the discourse; both message and style reflect the individual's background and understanding of self, thus signalling the presence of VOice.2S 69 The work of Labov, Schultz, Hawkes and Ong, when taken together, contribute to a full definition of voice: the medium writers/speakers use to express "something" about their interiority, by communicating that "something" both to themselves and to others. Writers/speakers communicate by externalizing an aspect of themselves so they and others may view, scrutinize, and come to understand it. In written and oral discourse, individuals assume a role, an attitude that best communicates that aspect or message; this message is one of the voice pr0perties of «discourse. Other voice properties include style (language and struc- turwe) and in a larger sense all narrative activity. A discourse is ricli in voice when it contains ideas and a style peculiar to the speaker/writer. As Schultz argues, "Voice is gesture, voice is cultnrre (including the personal background of the teller), voice contains the powers of the unconscious and the conscious and the possibility of style" ("Story Workshop,” p. 151). Voice is the writer's expression in oral and written discourse of the writer's own peculiar, individual understanding of self and the world. 7O NOTES 1Walter J. Ong., S.J., "Voice as Summons for Belief," in The Barbarian Within (New York: Macmillan, 1962), pp. 49-67; Richard Haggart, "Talking to Yourself," The Listener, 25 Nov. 1971, pp. 713—716. Both Hawkes and Ong use the term voice throughout their studies and suggest the connection between voice and personality; Hoggart employs the terms tone and style instead of voice. (Further references to these and other works in this chapter will be indicated in the text by page number.) 2William Labov, Language in the Inner City: Studies in Black English Vernacular (Philadelphia: Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 1976). Labov explores these narratives without mentioning the term voice. 3Robert N. Butler, "The Life Review: An Interpretation of lhaniniscence in the Aged," Psychiatry, 26, no. 1 (1963), pp. 65-76. 4John Schultz, "Story Workshop: Writing from Start to Finish," in.l%esearch on Composing: Points of Departure, ed. Charles Cooper and Lee (hiell (Urbana: National Council of Teachers of English, 1978), pp. L151-187. Betty Shiflett, "The Story Workshop," College English, 35, run. 2 (1973), pp. 141-160. (An analysis of the theory and practice of Schultz's story workshop.) 5In Explorations in the Teaching of Secondary English, Stephen N. Jtubr acknowledges the difficulty in defining the term voice: When a paper first comes in the teacher needs to begin the assessment by trying to discover whether or not the student was excited about the activity. The teacher needs to ask if this is real communication. Can you hear the student "talking" when you read it? Is it a lively piece of work that reveals the student's active participation? This quality in student ‘writing is difficult to define but rather easy to detect. Many people call it "voice"--meaning that the paper sounds as if a unique person wrote it not a computer or a bureaucrat. (New York: Harper 8. Row, 1974), pp. 103-104 6The Voice Project was conducted at Stanford University in 1966‘67- One hundred students forming five classes participated on a volunteer basis in the program. The selection of students was made :andomly Witlla.ratio of three males to one female; six geographic areas CEII represented. The classes depended heavily on team teaching, . b eagueshlp between teachers and students, and the sharing of materials etween classes, 7 I (”lg credits Martin Buber with the term I-thou. Martin Buber, and Thou, 'trans. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Scribner, 1970). 71 8Chapters IV and V look at what happens to the reader's voice during the interpretive stage of reading. In these chapters I argue that reading, the process whereby an individual takes in the voice of another, activates the reader's voice as the reader interprets what has been read. 9Hoggart equates style with tone and discusses both as Hawkes and Ong discuss voice. Hoggart makes some valuable points about how our personalities are reflected in our writing. But his interchangeable terms of tone and style complicate his argument. Tone is something we can hear in writing; style is something we can see. Tone is a more accurate term for Hoggart's point regarding personality in writing. Later in the chapter I will discuss how style is a voice property of ciiscourse, an outward sign that voice is present in the discourse. 10In this and subsequent paragraphs, I discuss factors that consciously (If unconscously influence the role chosen for a discourse. Though I lee “mitten discourse as examples, my conclusions apply equally to oral discourse. 11Attitude is here used to mean that part of an individual's be] ief system that judges the subject matter of the discourse. 12Donald Hall, Writing Well (Boston: Little, Brown, 1973), p. 38. 13Notice how the word flow is smoother in the second letter than in tlua first; the second also contains more deliberate sentences. Hall sees 21 correlation between diction and audience: You use words with your best friend that you do not use with your grandmother; hitchhiking a ride with a white-haired man wearing a blue suit, your words probably are different from those you would use if the driver wore sunglasses, bell-bottoms and long hair. If your vocabulary stays the same, chances are that you are being hostile in the sacred name of honesty. The choice of a level of diction comes from a subject and audience. (Writinngell, pp. 38, 131) 14 . . . . William F. Thompson, Media and Communication (New York: H‘Fu‘com‘t. 1972), pp.10, 9. . 15The choice of narrative for a discussion of outward signs of Vplce is not meant to imply that expository forms of discourse do not ISilgnalihe presence of voice. The highly expressive nature of the arrative makes it more suitable for a discussion of the voice prOperties of discourse. South C16IT1 a 1976 project, Labov researched Black English vernacular in lar c lentral Harlem children to discover the ways in which the vernacu- Part 3ftuIV3 uses language and verbal skills develop. In the third Vernac335535335? in the Inner City: Studies in the Black English W (1976), Labov examines the narratives obtained in his study of adults antral Harlem preadolescents (9-13), adolescents (14-19) and ' He determines what linguistic techniques are used to evaluate 0‘. “£th 72 experience in the BEV culture. Interviewers in the study prompted narratives of personal experience from the various age groups by introducing topics important to the culture, i.e., "Danger-of—Death” situations; interviewers often inserted encouraging questions during the interview to spawn total recall of the experience. Labov's results isolated certain syntactical devices used in the evaluation of personal narratives. . 17"Personal experience" is used loosely here to mean any degree of involvement in the event narrated. 18As a child grows older, Labov discovered, the narrative's evaluation becomes more sophisticated: "An unexpected result of the comparison across age levels is that the use of many syntactic devices for'evaluation does not develop until late in life, rising geometrically fronlpreadolescents to adolescents to adults" (Inner City, p. 355). 19Ong believes that the looking inward, the exploration of our psychological interior, is the first step in using our voice: "Voice is. the least exterior of sensible phenomena because it emanates not onlj/ from the physical but also from the divided psychological interior of'rnan and penetrates to another physical and psychological exterior. . . ." ("Summons" [1962], p. 60). 20The structures of the Harlem children and senior citizen nardvrtives are similar, except for the placement of the evaluation: Harlem (Rdldren Senior Citizens orientation .efitray rhoughts complicating action smore elaborate, precise recall evalqation M’ngalida ion evaluation 9- , TBSOIUtlon} ’,,,,,, I! coda The validation in the senior's narratives is similar to the coda in the Harlem narratives. For some reason, the evaluation in the senior's narratives comes last. 21 See Note 19. 2The term message takes in the writer's idea and the thought Ezgce§5 eVident in the creation of that idea. Implied in the use of the themmls the influence of the writer's belief system on the creation of t essageh The term does not refer to the reader's understanding of e text hfliich can be quite different from the writer's initial message. I lise the term style to mean the writer's structure and language: s -————— . tructure refers to the order of ideas and language refers to the words :FEZI‘. 1'" —‘ 73 chosen to express those ideas. 1 specify the way I use the term because many critics and researchers interchange the terms style and voice. I view style as part of voice. 23The personality of an individual is influenced by too many factors to begin documenting each. Past experience is one major influence; when talking of the personal background of a writer and how this background influences voice, the writer's reading experience should also be considered. Louise Rosenblatt in Reader, Text and Poem (1978) believes strongly in the importance of our reading encounters to our ”experiential frame": The reader's attention to the text activates certain elements in his past experience-~external reference, internal response--that have become linked with the verbal symbols. Meaning will emerge from a network of relationships among the ‘sul‘W q things symbolized as he senses them. . . . But the text may :, also lead him to be critical of those prior assumptions and associations. . . . (p. 11) 24The interviewers did coach the children to narrate "Danger-of- [kxith" situations. But the topic choice was deliberate given the scnzio-economic background of the speakers.(See pp. 69-72 of this chapter.) 25Like Labov, Hoggart in his Reith Lectures, implies a connection between the individual's particular social and cultural background and thraxnessage and style of writing. Our styles are us, he says, and we mustzrnake the best of them. According to Hoggart, a direct correlation exists between who we are and the thought patterns, structure and languagerof our writing. Furthermore, these two elements are shaped by social and cultural patterns: To wish otherwise is like a small man trying to pretend he is tall. When I was young I used to wish I could acquire a full, flowing style--which was like the illusions one had singing opera in the bath. I wanted a long syntactical breath with lots of runs, contrasts, juxtapositions, ambiguities, interlacings, and with subtle variations of length and pace and tone and stress. I realized later that my style doesn't by nature have a long line but moves by putting together short and idiomatic units, which may owe something to being brought Up in a society which talked rather than read, talked in short . jperiods, and used many concrete metaphors (p. 711). His conclusions are very similar to Labov's and Hawkes': cultural, S0C1etal influences affect the nature of the information and the flow 0f language in the narrative. CHAPTER II I THE READER AND THE COMMUNICATION PROCESS John Hawkes and John Schultz have defined the written voice as that which conveys something of the writer's personality. The message the voice transmits, say Hawkes and Schultz, reflects the writer's vision or outlook on life. One of the major conclusions of Hawkes' Voice Project (1966-67) is that student exposure to the oral and written voice of others can help in the development of their own. In his story workshop theory (1978), Hawkes argues that student exposure to the fiction writer's voice can help the development of the student's voice. The underlying premise of the methodologies that developed from the Voice Project experiment and the story workshop theory is that an individual's exposure to the voice of another can help the growth of the oral and written voice of that individual. Another way of exposing students to voice is through the reading process. During the reading process, the author's voice is communicated to the student reader. On the receiving end, as the student reader Witnesses the writer's experiences and vision, the student discovers a Whole new world. The reading process prompts the reader to evaluate another's experience with life. As a result, the student starts formulating Opinions on issues never before considered. The student recalls peOple and experiences from the past and starts reassessing, evaluating and JUdging the self.1 This evaluation can lead to a reaffirmation of already 74 75 existing values or the development of new ones. In either case, the reading act adds to the reader's life experience by stimulating memories of past experiences and prompting the reader to evaluate those experiences in light of the text's message.2 In so doing, the process stimulates the growth of the reader's voice. The relationship between author and reader via the text indicates that reading is a communication act. Throughout the process of voice communication from fiction writer to fiction reader, the :fictional narrative serves as the form of communication, the means by vfluich the writer's voice is transmitted.3 The voice embodies the winiter"s vision; the author, through the text, shares the vision with true reader and invites the reader to explore the reader's life. As a unit (of communication, the fictional narrative transmits messages of experience from one party to another; like other forms of communication, the ruxrrative involves a speaker (author), a listener (reader) and a subject: (message conveyed by the text). The author (speaker) fosters a response in the reader (listener) through the reader's exposure to the text.4 The concept of the reading of fiction as a communication process has been supported by such critics as Mary Louise Pratt (1977), James Moffett (1968), Wolfgang Iser (1975, 1978), D.W. Harding (1937, 1972), James Britton (1970, 1975) and Barbara Hardy (1968). All have provided convincing arguments that the fictional narrative is a unit of Communicaition and the reading process a communicative one. Pratt, Moffett axui Iser look at the process as a form of verbal communication. When SFUdenits read fiction, these critics claim, they can hear the voice 76 of the speaker with their inner ear. Harding, Britton and Hardy view the process as one of visual communication. As the reader's inner ear picks up the writer's voice, the reader's inner eye follows the actions of the characters. The reader's inner ear hears the writer's voice as the inner eye identifies the voice properties of the discourse. Mary Louise Pratt links literature with other forms of discourse to show the way the fictional narrative is a unit of communication. In Toward a Speech Act Theory of Literary Discourse (1977), Pratt identifies t. - _u...’ ~ tflie narrative as a unit of communication by arguing for a speech act thenary of literary discourse; this theory describes and defines litxarature in the same way as we would other forms of discourse: The greater part of this study is devoted to this latter enterprise, that is, the development of an approach which allows us to describe literary utterances in the same terms used to describe other types of utterances. . . . Speech act theory views a person's ability to deal with literary works as part of his general ability to handle possible linguistic structures in specific contexts. (p. xiii) In her':study, Pratt searches for a descriptive apparatus which ade(Illatelyaccounts for the uses of language outside literary discourse; this apparatus, she believes, also accounts for the uses of language in literary discourse: Needless to say, no such apparatus exists at present. However, the hypothesis itself finds ample support in some fairly recent development in sociolinguistics and speech act theory, the two areas of linguistic inquiry most deeply concerned with language Inses. I have tried to demonstrate how some of the general lxrinciples of language use worked out by sociolinguists such as 1Villiam Labov and Emmanuel Schegloff and speech act theoreti- ‘Iians such as John Searle and H. Paul Grice can be used to describe what writers and readers are doing with language when tfliey are participating in works of literature. (p. xiii) 77 With this descriptive apparatus, she defines literary discourse in terms of its similarities to other verbal activities. In searching for an apparatus that explains the use of language in literary and non-literary discourse, Pratt depends heavily on the sociolinguistic studies of William Labov: I propose to turn now to the work of a linguist who has approached the aesthetics of nonliterary discourse from outside poetics and whose results provide a vital corrective to the views of "ordinary language" arising from structural poetics. I refer to the eminent American sociolinguist William Labov, whose work on the oral narrative of personal experience may well be the only body of data-based research dealing with aesthetically structured discourse which is not, by anybody's definition, literature. (pp. 38-39) -m-lt'T ‘ fl Shea links Labov's structural divisions of the natural narrative with the traditional divisions of the fictional literary narrative.6 According 11) Pratt, the similarities between the two indicate that literary discxnrrse takes on many of the content and structural characteristics of other forms of discourse. The major content similarity between the fictional narrative and time natural narrative, according to Pratt, is that each attempts to render experience. Novels, anecdotes, or collections of anecdotes, are Similar in content to our daily speech:7 One of the most striking aspects of Labov's model, as I SUggested earlier, is its self-evidence. I think it is self- evident for two reasons. First the oral narrative of personal experience is a speech act exceedingly familiar to us all, 'regardless of what dialect we speak. We all spend enormous amounts of conversational time exchanging anecdotes. 7H1at novels and natural narratives both have a structurally SiJnilar "narrative core" is not so surprising, since both are attempts to render experience. (pp. 50, 51) 78 The irrtention of the narrator in both narrative forms is to communicate experience and have that experience judged by the receiver. According to Pratt, however, the similarities between the naturwal. and fictional narrative go beyond the basic rendering of expertienice; the structural divisions within the natural narrative (as outliiieni by Labov) parallel those within the fictional narrative (acccxrciing to traditional definitions of fiction). Labov defines a C0"Ei1cluce the reader to the narrative's events and themes. According to Pratt, an orientation is critical to both the fie‘tional narrative and the natural narrative, for to maximize communica- tic3n, both narratives must provide the reader with certain basic information. Citing as evidence the opening paragraphs of Melville's "Bartleby, the Scrivener," Pratt argues the importance of the orienta- tlom “cur-Ix q q 80 Here, Melville's narrator tells us in more detail why his subject matter is worth our attention (scriveners are "interesting" and "singular," nothing has even been written about them, and Bartleby is the "strangest” of them all) and why he is particularly and uniquely competent to deal with the subject matter (he has worked in "more than ordinary contact" with scriveners, he is an "original source" about Bartleby, there are no other sources, and so on). He also informs us of his competence to deal with his subject matter in writing. He tells us he could write the biographies of many scriveners and lets us know more generally that he is an educated man, presumably a lawyer, placed high enough to have employes and chambers, and a man who reads enough to know that scriveners are an unusual literary subject. Through these remarks, the narrator solidifies the newly made contract between himself and his reader and reassures his audience that they have not erred in giving him their attention.(p. 62) The Cixfiientation adds validity to what follows by sealing the contract betwweeari narrator and audience. Remarks like those of Melville's lawyer, and 1:}lee contract they establish, Pratt continues, are also common to natura 1 narratives: The stock phrase ”I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes" is often used by natural narrators in their abstracts to stress their own credibility and the worth of their upcoming story. Similarly, it is perfectly appropriate for a natural narrator to start off with a statement like "well, I've been in a lot of places and I've met a lot of people, but I never knew anybody like this guy in Algiers." Notice that such a remark could be used either as a way of requesting ratification to tell a story (i.e., or inviting the "oh yeah?") or as an extension of the abstract after permission has been granted. In the latter case, its job, as in the Melville passage, is to seal the narrator/audience contract. (p. 62) 1“ b0th narratives, Pratt concludes, the orientation serves to reassure it}1e’ audience that the story is worthy of attention and that the audience Shcmld read on or listen further to determine the implications of that "Orth. The author's/speaker's evaluation is a second structural element Very similar in both the natural and fictional narrative, according to K..- .g-. “‘1 ‘ 81 Pratt:. Like the orientation, the evaluative section provides another sourwze: of information for the receiver. This section, Pratt notes, indicates the teller's point, the narrative's raison d'etre. Through the evaluation, she continues, the speaker openly invites the reader to respond. According to Pratt, the author/speaker interrupts the narrmitxive in this section to initiate the reader's attitude and point of View toward the subject: We are all familiar with author interruptions instructing us what judgments we should form (Labov's external evaluation), with the long passages of internal monologue as the hero pauses to reflect on his situation, with the dialogues assessing a state of affairs from several viewpoints, and with the pronouncements of authority figures on whose judgments we are invited to rely. As in Labov's data, it is in novelistic passages like these that we find the highest concentration of comparative constructions, complex auxiliaries, metaphors, and so on. All the evaluative devices Labov described in natural narrative are there in literary narrative, and they perform the same function in both types. (pp. 63-64) The eValuation in both the natural and literary narrative, according to PTPErttg is usually concentrated in one section, but evaluative deViJ:€38 are generally spread throughout the entire narrative, "forming vfliat: lie [Labov] calls 'a secondary structure'” (po 47). Pratt defines Labov's typology of evaluative devices and then adapts the typology to the literary narrative. She concentrates on two eva111ative devices: evaluative commentary and sentence-internal evaluation. In the evaluative commentary, she explains, "the narrator interrupts the progress of the narrative with a statement reaffirming theItellability of the story or assessing the situation" (pp. 47-48). The-‘narrator uses one (or more) of the following devices each defined 1b)’ the agent who delivers it: the external speaker, who comments directly 82 on thta events of the story (narrator in Jane Eyre); the internal speaker, who comments on the events as they are witnessed (Nick in The Egeat: (Satsby); and the outside observor, who is removed indirectly fronn'tlie story's events (the narrator in Silas Marner). Sentence- interuiail evaluation occurs when intensifiers--devices added to the basic: riarrative syntax-~or when comparators--verb phrases other than the simple past—-are used. Examples of intensifiers are expressive phont>1<>gy, statements like ”way back" and "all the way down,” ritual inteijjeections and repetition; examples of comparators include questions, COmMHaruCls, negatives, futures and modals. A final structural similarity between the natural and fictxic31131 narrative, Pratt argues, is the coda; like the evaluation and orierlt:21tion, the coda provides another important source of information. I" a 1.j.terary narrative, coda types include the word "fin," the last word. €317 a symbol. In a natural narrative, phrases such as "the end" or 10 H and 'tliat was that" serve the same brief conclusory function. Codas i . . 11 both natural and literary narratives, however, can also take the £0 . . . . r“) C>f an elaboration, expanSion, summary or moralization: Frequently, however, novels have elaborate codas that, like those of natural narratives, explain, recapitulate, and evaluate the story's outcome, inform us of the ultimate consequences of the story, provide supplemental narrative information, extend the story into the future so as to "bring the narrator and the listener back to the point at which they entered the narrative," and generally "leave the listener with a feeling of satisfac- tion and completeness that matters have been rounded off and accounted for" (Labov, 1972: 365). (pp. 56-57) ReEtders, according to Pratt have come to expect codas in natural speech and in fiction. The coda is the cue that the information the narrator haS been presenting has come to a close. The coda signals the end of the nEli‘rative. 83 The expansive, summary and open-ended coda are among the types Pratt (defines. The author, says Pratt, can use the coda to help develtofn the reader's final response. This type is an expansive coda The close which takes the reader far beyond the limits of the text. Of’Nk31\/ille's "Bartleby" provides a good example of this expansive coda. The narrator signals the beginning of the coda by leaving a space in the text. The lawyer then comments on the state of Bartleby's existence, the state of any lonely individual's existence, finally the state of 31 1 humanity: 'With kings and counsellors,‘ murmured I. * There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history. Imagination will readily supply the meagre recital of poor Bartleby's interment. But ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this little narrative has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity as to who Bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the present narrator's making his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in such curiosity I fully share, but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet here I hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumour, which came to my ear a few months after the scrivener's decease. The report was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a change in the administration. Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!11 His jfinal musing, "Ah, Bartleby. Ah, humanity," invites the reader to itr‘ilik beyond the surface events of the story; the narrator thereby flu~“thers the reader's understanding and appreciation of the story. The summary coda, according to Pratt does not add any new information, but reminds the reader of the story's events; the summary QC>‘da also gives the reader a feeling of natural close. The coda in Step1: the re 'mforr IESpO' 84 Stepflieni Crane's "The Blue Hotel," for example, recounts the events for the Iweader and for the cowboy, a character in the story. The coda informs the reader and the cowboy that everyone in the hotel was responsible for the Swede's death: "Fun or not," said the Easterner, "Johnie was cheating. I saw him. I know it. I saw him. And I refused to stand up and be a man. I let the Swede fight it out alone. And you--you were simply puffing around the place and wanting to fight. And then old Scully himself! We are all in it! This poor gambler isn't even a noun. He is kind of an adverb. Every sin is the result of a collaboration. We, five of us, have collaborated in the murder of the Swede. Usually there are from a dozen to forty women really involved in every murder, but in this case it seems to be only five men-~you, I, Johnie, old Scully; and that fool of an unfortunate gambler came merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement, and gets all the punishment." The cowboy, injured and rebellious, cried out blindly into this fog of mysterious theory: "Well, I didn't do anythin', did I?" ThiiS Iiiiformation is already evident from the events of the story, but the reaffirmation adds a final touch of irony: all were aware that they contributed to the Swede's demise, but no one had the courage to prevent it. Another type, the open-ended coda leaves the evaluation of the iteeet almost entirely up to the reader; that is, the author provides the reader with little assistance in understanding the events of the Story. A classic example of an open-ended coda is provided by Saki's '"T11e Open Window." In this tale, a young girl scares away a pompous bc’l‘e by telling him an absolutely fantastic story about her house and leetr family; the child appears so innocent and truthful that even the reader believes her story. At the end, the girl begins another fa‘ntastic story for which the motivation is not nearly so clear and the 85 readtar' is left to guess at the credibility of both tales: "I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly: "he told me had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make any one lose their nerve." Romance at short notice was her specialty. The <2cnda in "The Open Window" adds to the charming mysteriousness of the entire story. Pratt's comparison of the structural units of the natural and fictional narrative provides strong evidence that literary and natural narrtitzives are formally and functionally similar. She emphasizes that 3“ all‘t‘hor uses language to communicate in the same way that a speaker d°e5‘- Furthermore, the problems encountered in both the speaker/ liStGETIeH'and author/reader relationships are the same: Put another way, all problems of coherence, chronology, causality, fore-grounding, plausibility, selection of detail, tense, point of view, and emotional intensity exist for the natural narrator just as they do for the novelist and they are confronted and solved (with greater or lesser success by speakers of the language every day. These are not rhetorical problems that literary narrators have had to solve by inventing poetic language. . . . we are obliged to draw the more obvious conclusion that the formal similarities between natural narrative and literary narrative derive from the fact that at some level of analysis they are utterances of the same type. And, let me repeat, their identity goes beyond minimal narra- tivity. From the point of view of structural poetics, this claim implies a redefinition of the relation between literary and nonliterary uses of language. It means that most of the features which poeticians believed constituted the "literari- ness" of novels are not "literary" at all. They occur in novels not because they are novels (i.e., literature) but because they are members of some other more general category of speech acts. (pp. 66-67, 69) Tele literary narrative, she emphatically concludes, is a form of discourse, a speech act. The process of reading the literary narrative, 'therefore, is a communicative one. 'im.-"I" fl A. 86 Pratt's study focuses on the internal structural features of the natural and the fictional narrative. In her utilization of Labov's structural devices, she hints at the importance of the speaker/audience/ text :rwalationship to the definition of literary discourse. In Teaching the IJrLiverse of Discourse (1968), James Moffett places this relationship at tlie: center of his argument that the fictional narrative is a form of discourse, a unit of communication. He sets out to define all narrmat:ives--literary and non-literary--in terms of this relationship. AS VVifitli Pratt's study, Moffett's work also points to the reading of literature as a communication process. In Universe of Discourse, Moffett interprets all discourse (flfrtiitan and non-fiction) as a system of communication operating among three elements: the teller, one told to and the telling medium.12 The Shifting relationship among speaker, listener and subject determines the form of the narrative, the type of discourse: For the sake of parsimony, the things that make for variation in discourse can be put as a matter of time and space. (1) How "large" in time and space is the speaker, the listener, the subject? (2) How great is the distance between them? (3) Do two or all of them coincide? Since these questions relate directly to the "removal" of phenomena from time and space (the degree of particularity or generality), by asking them we may easily relate "persons" (1, you, it) to levels of abstractions. For one thing, the very activity of the discourse-- thinking, speaking, informal writing, or publishing-~is essentially determined by the distance in time and space between speaker and listener. (p. 32) ‘ie? Outlines the discourse forms in order of increasing distance be"tween first and second person. In a reflection, speaker and listener aJTe one and the speaker shapes the text to fit personal demands. In a 87 conversation, the material is shaped to aid another's understanding; this other is within vocal range. In a correspondence, the audience is another who is often known to the speaker and who shares common interests with that speaker. In a publication, the material is directed 11) a larger anonymous group extended over space and time: Several features relevant to curriculum appear already. (1) The communication system expands throughout the progres- sions. (2) Each kind of discourse is more selective, composed, and public than those before. (3) Feedback becomes increasingly slower until it tends to disappear, which is to say that two- way transaction is yielding to one-way transmission. (4) Emphasis shifts necessarily from the communication drama between first and second persons to the bare message or content; from the I-you relation to the I-it relation. (p. 33) 1T1 (each case, the form of the discourse changes in accord with the Change in the nature of the relationship between author and audience. Similarly, Moffett explores the literary narrative as a CoImmunication system by listing and defining a sequence of narrative (<1i.scourse) types: interior monologue, dramatic monologue, letter narration, diary narration, subjective narration, detached auto- bi-<>graphy, memoir or observer narration, and biography or anonymous Y‘ailrration (single, dual, multiple or no character points of view). Each type reflects a different relationship among speaker, subject and 1istener. The first type, interior monologue, is an intra-organismic Q0mmunication, because the speaker is also the listener; the reader is allowed to tune in on the communication. Moffett cites as an example lEdouard Dujardin's We'll to the Woods No More: "The menu. Let's see . I fish, sole . . . yes, a sole. Entrees, mutton cutlets . . . no. Chicken . . . yes" (p. 123). These few lines indicate the reflexiveness 88 of the language. The message is conveyed as much by the narrator's process of perceiving and thinking as by the content of the perceptions and thoughts. At the opposite end of the narrative sequence is the anonymous narration, with no character point of view. The anonymous narrator vwitflidraws from the character's mind and is confidante to no one: One result is something like legend or myth, where external deeds and words carry the story by themselves with the narrator supplying background information and commentary. The characters tend to be typical or universal, the action symbolic or ritualistic. Personal psychology is not the point. These are thoroughly communal stories with an arche- typal psychology. Another result is the external sketch. The next step would be to drop the eyewitness role as well, leaving only chorus information in the form of generalized chronicles, digests of the sorts of documents covered up to here. In other words, the rest is histories, summaries of summaries of summaries. (pp. 142-143) 133 illustrate, Moffett discusses Nathaniel Hawthorne's parable, "The Minister's Black Veil." Here, the characters are symbolic and the StOry is allegorical; the narrator is anonymous: The next day, the whole village of Milford talked of little else than Parson Hooper's black veil. That, and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the street, and good women gossiping at their open windows. It was the first item of news that the tavern-keeper told to his guests. (p. 143) The presence of Hawthorne's narrator is evident but very distant from ‘the reader, who senses that the narrator is passing on a lesson, a Story that has been recently heard. The definition of the narrative as a system of communication, says Moffett, is crucial to the way readers interpret literature. Interpretation, he argues, should not be based solely on the content of the arrive c:- 'h\ 89 of the text. By looking at the communication structure, the reader can arrive at a more substantial understanding of literature: Perhaps this scheme could be of use to critics and reviewers, who could in turn help, more than they sometimes do, the average reader. Most of us are content-bound by training. We ask ourselves unnecessarily complicated questions about what a story means and what the author is doing when a simple glance at the communication structure of the work would answer many of these questions. Every message has intent as well as content, and form embodies this intent. Gatsby is "great" only as seen by Nick; if you want to create a semi-lengendary figure of romantic mystery you do not take the reader into his mind. And can you imagine what would happen to our ship of fools if it were viewed only by one of the characters? (pp. 149-150) Iritxerpretation, Moffett argues throughout his book, is the product of time: writer's vision and intent, the specific mode of discourse and the I‘eader's frame of experience. The individual must be aware of all these elements when reading the fictional narrative. (See Chapter IV of this Sendy.) Moffett's definition of narrative forms supplants the traditional IDCXint-of-view theory which states that all fictional forms have either ‘1 :first or third person point of view. The problem with that theory, MC>tf'fett explains, is that it implies the absence of a speaker in third l§€3rson fictions. In Moffett's narrative sequence, a speaker always EEXists. All fictional narratives have functional, speaking points of \’iew, because all fictional narratives are forms of discourse, forms of (tommunication. The reading of fiction is a situation in which a ispeaker addresses a listener about a subject; reading, then, is a Communicationgprocess. Wolfgang Iser also emphasizes the literary narrative as a form of discourse and the reading process as a communicative one, but he is 90 more specific than Moffett in identifying the movement of messages from speaker to listener. In "Reality of Fiction: A Functionalist Approach to Literature" (1975) and The Act of Reading (1980), Iser suggests that the reading of fiction is a speech act: The speech act theory derived from ordinary language philo- sophy is an attempt to describe those factors that condition the success or failure of linguistic communication. These factors also pertain to the reading of fiction, which is a linguistic action in the sense that it involves an understanding of the text or of what the text seeks to convey by establishing a relationship between text and reader. Referring to the speech act theories of J.L. Austin and James Searle, Iseer' proposes that the reading process has linguistic properties because the: Iarocess has a speaker and listener and the interchange between the two resembles an illocutionary act.14 In How to Do Things with Words, J.L. Austin identifies three Speexzhi acts, each of which leads to a different listener performance: We first distinguish a group of things we do in saying something, which together we summed up by saying we perform a locutionary act which is roughly equivalent to uttering a certain sentence with a certain sense and reference, which again is roughly equivalent to "meaning" in the traditional Second we said that we also perform illocutionary acts .such as informing, ordering, warning, undertaking, 5c., i.e., titterances which have a certain (conventional) force. Thirdly, eve may also perform perlocutionary acts: what we bring about or Eichieve by saying something such as convincing, persuading, cieterring, and even say, surprising or misleading. Here we Ilave true, if not more, different senses of dimensions of the "Iise of the sentence" or the "use" of the language. (p. 108f) sense. Au . o I 0 stin claims that an utterance which produces a de51red effect has the - . . . quallty of a perlocutionary act. An utterance that can only inVite a re . . SponSe and has only a potential effect has the quality of an 1110c ° ut1<>11£1ry act. In addition, the potential effect in an illocutionary 91 act depends on the illocutionary force derived from the situational context, that is,the speaker's intention. According to Iser, the language of literature resembles more (Llosely the illocutionary mode than the perlocutionary mode. Fixztional language possesses the basic properties of the illocutionary act: as outlined by Austin, but functions differently: Asvuahave seen, the success of a linguistic action depends on the resolution of indeterminacies by means of conventions, procedures, and guarantees of sincerity. These form the frame of reference within which the speech act can be resolved into a context of action. Literary texts also require a resolution of indeterminacies but, by definition, for the fiction there can be no such given frames of reference. On the contrary, the reader must first discover for himself the code underlying the text, and this is tantamount to bringing out the meaning. ("Reality," p. 13) lsei‘ eexplains that the reader creates the frame of reference through the Iarwacess of discovering the writer's vision; this discovery—- itselgf' a.linguistic act--is critical to the communication process. Communication occurs as the reader completes the literary work, as the reader' zillows the work to have meaning, to be alive and be real. Searle, in his 1969 study, Speech Acts an Essay in the PhilosoRhy 2£_£§1gggg§1gg, and Austin, in With Words, emphasize that the absence of a frame ()1? :reference in a literary text separates literary language from Spoken léitiguage. Since literary language is void (a result of no frame of reference), they exclude it from the realm of speech. Literary language: cicses not acquire meaning through controlled usage and cannot link up to a situational context that controls that usa F ge. or a linguistxi<= act to be successful, they argue, the following conditions mu$t b . . e Tne31;: the utterance must invoke a convention valid for both 92 recipient and speaker; the application of the convention must be governed by certain accepted procedures; and the utterance must be properly understood—-that is, the full intention of the speaker must be 15 . . . . clear. These conditions, according to Austin and Searle, are not met by literary language and, therefore, a speech act cannot occur. Iser modifies the speech act theory to account for the differences Austin and Searle perceive between literary and spoken language. He argues that fictional language provides instructions for the building of the situational context; during the reading process, the reader discovers and decodes these instructions: As far as the reader is concerned, he finds himself obliged to work out why certain conventions should have been selected for his attention. This process of discovery is in the nature of a performative action, for it brings out the motivation governing the selection. (p. 14) Iser identifies the instructions as strategies equivalent to accepted procedures of the speech act. Like accepted procedures, the strategies guide the reader to an understanding of the text, but, unlike the accept ed procedures, they combine to counter established expectations the reader might have. Since the language, through the work of the strategies, influences the reader to respond, the language assumes a perforwnéit:ive quality and an illocutionary force. By arousing the reader's; .attention, the language directs the reader's approach to the ten and elicits responses-—all qualities of a speech act. Iser concludes , therefore, that fictional language has the necessary properties of a speech act. me author is the user of the language that, according to Iser, POSSes Ses an illocutionary force; through the language, the author's 93 voice communicates an experience and requests that the reader evaluate that experience in light of past experiences. The author's request is a very natural one; the reader's interpretive response, involving self- evaluation, is also a natural one. Barbara Hardy, in "Towards a Poetics of Fiction: An Approach through Narrative" (1968), assumes that the reading of fiction is a communication act and argues for the natural quality of the author's desire to communicate; the narrative mode, she believes, is a continuation of the human mind and is consciously created out of a natural desire to share history and identity: "Thus we may be engaged in telling ourselves stories in a constant attempt to exchange identity and history, though many of us stay in love with ourselves, sufficiently self-attached to rewrite the other stories for The fictional narrative is an act of mind our own purposes." transferred from life to art. Fiction, says Hardy, heightens, isolates, analyzes and clarifies the narrative motions of the human consciousness and transfers those motions to a receiver: We often tend to see the novel as competing with the world of happenings. I should like to see it as the continuation, in disguising and isolating art, of the remembering, dreaming, and planning that is in life imposed on the uncertain, attenuated, interrupted and unpredictable or meaningless flow of happenings. (pp. 6-7) According to Hardy, fiction is part of a communication system that carries messages from a human mind to a receiver/reader- Hardy explores several narrative modes, fictional and non- fictional , and shows how each has a similar purpose: communicating history and identity. The novel, she argues, is a long narrative StruCt , . . . tire of human consc10usness; short fiction is a smaller one; d2 . TL? 94 daydreaming, storytelling and fantasizing are even smaller constructs. All these narrative modes, Hardy explains, join the future with the past. All create, maintain and transform human relationships and try to initiate change in the author's/reader's perceptions of human experience: Narratives and dramas are often about making up stories and playing roles. The novel is introverted in this sense, not because novels tend to be about novels, but because they tend to be about the larger narrative structure of consciousness, and the value and dangers involved in narrative modes of invention, dream, causal projection, and so on. (p. 7) fl Algl :narrative structures provide a means whereby the reader comes to uruiexrstand others and the self; this understanding is achieved by "texll ing, untelling, believing, and disbelieving stories about each otfuei"s pasts, futures, and identities" (p. 6). We write because the act allows us to put our experiences into persraexztive; we read at least partly to seek assistance in dealing with expeliitence. Hardy believes our attraction to both processes is rooted in a continual need to reconstruct and evaluate, to make order out of disortlexr and to find sense in our despair, pain, successes, madness and happiness--the motions of the human mind. She stresses at the close (>1? her article, "It is hard to stop telling stories" (p. 14)- It is liéiird to stop sharing, communicating. Literature is a form of discourse, and the reading process a communicative one because the teXt if; ‘tlie product of a desire to share and sharing can only be achieved through communication. A\<:cording to the theories of Hardy, Iser, Pratt and Moffett, then ’ tilee ‘Ieading process is a communicative one in which the reader of 95 the fictional narrative plays a receptive, listening role. In this role, the reader is directed, guided by the author. The author's attempt at communication is a conscious one; the author invites the reader to witness and evaluate experience. Through the narrative discourse the author seeks approval from the reader that the experience The author also invites the reader to portrayed is a possible one. At the evaluate the reader's own experiences by interpreting the text. 18 point of interpretation, the communication/speech act is completed. Communication/speech act theory defines the text as a form of communication, the author as a conscious communicator, and the reader as a receiver. The spectator theory of literature, which holds that the reader and writer visually perceive the events of the story, complements the communication/speech act theory and reinforces the communication quality of the fictional reading process. Under the sPectator theory, the fiction writer is a spectator who uses the text t0 externalize a vision for both author and reader. As spectator, the writer invites the reader to be a spectator and to share in the WI‘lter 's vision by discovering the text. D.W. Harding has done the most extensive work on the reader-as- Spectator concept. In "The Role of the Onlooker" (1937) and "Psycholo— gical Processes in the Reading of Fiction" (1972), he explains that the re - . . ader W1 tnesses developments in the text and responds to them like a S . o 0 ' pectator at an event.” A spectator, v1ew1ng an acc1dent, a fight or even . . . . . . . something as undramatlc as the da11y act1v1t1es of an office, Hardi "g argues, constantly responds. The reSponse may take the form of fear , horror,de1ight or curiosity (unconscious) or anger, disappointment, 96 chagrin, pride or disgust (conscious and judgmental): Part of everyone's time is spent in looking on at events not primarily in order to understand (though that may come in) and not in preparation for doing something about them, but in a non-participant relation which yet includes an active evaluative attitude. We can say two things of the onlooker: first that he attends, whether his attention amounts to a passing glance or fascinated absorption; and second, that he evaluates, whether his attitude is one of faint liking or disliking, hardly above indifference, or strong, perhaps intensely emotional, and perhaps differentiated into pity, horror, contempt, respect, amusement, or any other of the shades and kinds of evaluation, most of them unlabelled even in our richly differentiated language. ("Psychological Process," p. 134) Time: spectator's response occurs when the spectator is alone or with <>t11ers. In the presence of others, says Harding, old responses can (ITIange and new ones develop. The nature of the spectator's response, according to Harding, deijends on how strongly the spectator identifies with the participants 3111 the event and on the importance of the event in the spectator's value E5)’.stem. When the event occurs, sentiments travel from participant to SPerctator and new sentiments are triggered within the spectator. To i-1.1ustrate, Harding describes a struggle between policemen and a second group. A system of sentiments is activated in the individuals observing the confrontation. But the nature of those sentiments depends on how the onlookers evaluate the other group;". . . as men or ‘NCnnen, drunk or sober, strike pickets, rowdy students, smash—and-grab tliieves, political demonstrators" (p. 135). If the spectators feel alienated from the second group, their sentiments will resemble those <>f the policemen. If they are alienated from both groups, they will deve10p an entirely independent system of sentiments. In the latter 97 (zzisse, a complex interaction occurs among many mutually entangled systems of sentiment. Similarly, Harding argues, the reader is a spectator who witnesses the actions and experiences the author presents. The reader's inner eye views the developments in the fiction's plot and the visual responses of its characters: A novel is so distantly related to many other sorts of art, and so closely related to activities that are not included among the arts, that an approach through aesthetic generaliza- tions would be restricting and misleading. . . . Much more important aspects of fiction are illuminated if the reader of a novel is compared with the man who hears about other people and their doings in the course of ordinary gossip. And to give an account of gossip we have to go a step or two farther back and consider the position of the person who looks on at actual events. As a framework, then, within which to discuss fiction, I want to offer some statement of the psychological position of the onlooker (of which I attempted a fuller discussion in "The Role of the Onlooker," Scrutiny, VI, 3, December, 1937), and then to view the reading of a novel as a process of looking on at a representation of imagined events or, rather, of listening to a descriptionCHFthem. (pp. 133-134) Iuifike the spectating process, he explains, the reading process allows a ID€3rson to view ways of life beyond the individual's range of experiences. 7P}1e reader/spectator can witness different people, places and events-- tlhe whole spectrum of human experience. Furthermore, in this spectator rOle, says Harding, the reader is given the Opportunity to respond aCtively and productively. The reader, he concludes does not read for VVish-fulfillment, but for wish-development: What sometimes is called wish-fulfillment in novels and plays can, therefore, more plausibly be described as wish-formulation or the definition of desires. The cultural levels at which it works may vary widely; the process is the same. It is the social act of affirming with the author a set of values. . . It seems nearer the truth, therefore, to say that fictions contribute to defining the reader's or spectator's values and perhaps stimulating his desires rather than to suppose that they gratify desire. (p. 144) 98 'TTiea reader's response is active because the author has encouraged the reader to define individual desires and value systems. The reader's response is an affirmation that the experience the author has portrayed is a possible human activity. The author's vision becomes worthy of attention when the reader can use that vision to redefine the reader's own beliefs . Harding explains that in this spectator role, the reader is Slitxjected to the same influences as a spectator at an event. The reader's response is dependent on the sentiment that binds the reader 'tC) the author, i.e., the importance of the author's vision in the 1‘ eader' 5 value system: One process on which the response depends--apart from the elementary perception and comprehension of the scene--is that of imaginative or empathic insight into other living things, mainly other people. But this would give only imaginative sharing of the participant's experience. At least equally important is the onlooker's, or the reader's, evaluation of the participants and what they do and suffer, an evaluation that I would relate in further analysis to his structure of interests and sentiments. (p. 147) Such sentiments are evident in the statements of Sherwood Anderson's nairrator in "The Egg"; the narrator specifically acknowledges this binding sentiment throughout the story. He repeatedly calls attention 't<) his philosophy on life and postulates possible reader response. His Ifeaders may become bored, he notes, if he preaches too much. On the (Ither hand, he adds, they will understand his didacticism because they, like himself, have often thought about life's precarious nature. The narrator's comments about himself, his theme and his reader are scattered throughout: "One unversed in such matters can have no notion of the nmny and tragic things that can happen to a chicken. Did I say I 99 embarked in the restaurant business in the town of Bidwell, Ohio? I exaggerated a little. . . . On the seat of the wagon beside father was his greatest treasure. I will tell you of that."20 Anderson's narrator is aware of what Harding calls the spectator role of a reader. He informs his readers of the sentiment that binds him to them and he assures them that the experiences they are witnessing are familiar ones. The spectator theory of literature adds an interesting ‘1- ~r.—-—‘ .as-w. . ‘W. dimension to the communication concept of reading, especially when we consider the role of author as spectator. According to Harding and those who have adopted his ideas, the spectator theory implies a dual communication. As the author communicates to the reader/spectator, the author also communicates to the self. The author's role is as active as the reader's; the author is E a participant, but a spectator. The author's opportunity to witness and respond to the creation makes POSSible the act of reading. Since both writer and reader share the same Spectator role, the text becomes the one element they have in common. For the author, the text is a means of communicating to the self and the reader. For the reader, the text is a means of witnessing and hence receiving the author's messages. For both, the text becomes the blue- prmt of human experience.21 Barbara Hardy also argues in favor of the author as audience. In . . . . support of this concept, she compares novel writing to daydreaming. She ' . . . . . , llnks the structure of a fictional narrative With that of inner and out . er s torytelling: For we dream in narrative, daydream in narrative, remember, anticipate, hope, despair, believe, doubt, plan, revise, criticize, construct, gossip, learn, hate, and love by narra- tive. In order really to live, we make up stories about 100 ourselves and others, about the personal as well as the social past and future. ("Poetics of Fiction," p. 5) Both naJrrative writing and daydreaming are processes of removing an aspect ()f ourselves and viewing and scrutinizing that aspect: Fantasy-life does not come to an end at eighteen but goes on working together with the more life—orientated modes of r planning, faithful remembering, and rational appraisal. We can distinguish the extremes of cut-off indulgent fantasy and faithful document, but the many intermediate states blue the distinction and are compounded of fantasy and realism. The element of dream can be sterile and dangerously in-turned; it can also penetrate deeply and accept a wide range of disturb- ing and irrational experience. . . . Dream can provide a look at the unwished-for worst. (p. 6) In our'ciay-to-day lives, she argues, we oscillate between fairy tale and trirth, between dream and waking. As we fantasize, we externalize an aspenzt of ourselves in order to understand and judge ourselves. Hardy Cilaims that our need to separate experiences for our judging and understilnding is as great as our need to share these experiences with others. The spectator role gives us the opportunity to self evaluate Contimlally, an activity that Hardy believes is crucial to our daily eXistence. ‘James Britton adheres to the same concept of the literary a . . . uthor Eis spectator in Language and Learning_(1970), acknowledging the we . . rk 01? I).W. Harding, Britton argues that the author must be a specta- to . . . . . . r bec'éllise every imaginative product comes to an indiVidual as an ex ~ . . . perlence recalled--or seen—-and not as experience in the making: (Bur minds tend to dwell on what has been happening to us and \uhen we have nothing particular to think about we respond to (bur environment often enough by summoning past experiences associated with whatever in it catches our attention. And these preoccupations are likely to spill over into words when \ve find ourselves in the company of someone disposed to listen. ‘2‘ “fir—1M 101 As spectator, Britton says, the individual does not take part in the experiences recalled, but sets them up in the mind's eye for a second view. lJnder the scrutiny of this reexamination, the experiences take on a DEfld shape, often influenced by other past experiences. Britton argues that we assume the role of spectator whenever we writxe, talk, read or listen. We write or talk to please others and ourselvwes; we invite others to share the experiences we are recalling. As readers and listeners, we can accept that invitation; the result is a ViBWiJlg of another's experience and a reconstructioncfi?our own: This leads to the final extension of the area of applica- tion: if I may take up the role of spectator of my own past or future experiences, of other people's experiences, past or futures, then I may also become spectator of events that have never happened and never happen. I do so, in a fairy story or its adult equivalent. The satisfaction I have in the story is the kind of satisfaction I derive, not from looking back on one I have had; it is as though I were to go back over an experience I have not had! (p. 103) Whenerar we contemplate, enjoy and/or reconstruct experiences so that we can learn from them, we are playing the role of spectator; we are co"“mlrlicating both with ourselves and with others. According to Britton, Hardy and Harding, then, an individual eXiSt£5 t>ehind every work of fiction. That individual visually communi- cates zitrtitudes and experiences to the self and to others by recalling prior BXperiences for view in the mind's eye. According to the theories 0f Pratt, Iser and Moffett, the reader is at the receiving end of the auth01"ss conscious attempt at verbally communicating an experience and the atTtritudes linked to that experience. The author brings a vision into the open to seek assurance that the vision is worthy 0f exchange- Thro ugh the written voice, the author speaks to the reader and encourages 102 the reader to be co-discoverer in the writer's vision. The author seeks the reader's affirmation that the experience portrayed is plausible and interesting; the author asks the reader to share in the spectator process. The author, therefore, invites the reader to evaluate, refine and modify the reader's system of beliefs. If we view the reading of fiction as a communication act, we can put aside our traditional emphasis on the meaning of a literary text and assume a more functionalist view of the text's effect on the reader. The reading act is a communicative one because it has a particular effect on the reader.” The author does not dictate meaning or a certain response; the author invites one. As in any communication situation, the reader is free to accept, reject or modify the medium's message_ Any form of response indicates that the reader has performed in an evaluative manner.24 This evaluation stage, the subject of the next Chapter, is the point at which the voice is activated. The reader' 3 sense of self crystallizes during this stage; the reader eventUally emerges from the reading act with a modified system of beliefs and a well-tuned voice. an ‘..-m' «5" 103 NOTES 1Louise M. Rosenblatt (The Reader, 1978) believes that a work of literature is an event in the life of the reader: First, the text is a stimulus activating element of the reader's past experience--his experience both with literature and with life. Second, the text serves as a blueprint, a guide for the selecting, rejecting, and ordering of what is being called forth; the text regulates what will be held in the forefront of the reader‘s attention. (p. 11) Rosenbleitt suggests that the reader's experience with life recalled throng}! an experience with literature, results in a reevaluation of the reatler's system of beliefs. (Further references to this and other .. works iri this chapter will be indicated in the text by page number.) 2The author's responsibility for the reader's subsequent self-evwiluation is a theory shared by many theorists, among them Roman Ingardeni, Wolfgang Iser and Rosenblatt. All agree that the author, throng}, the text, initiates change in the reader. Ingarden claims that the cheuige is the result of the reader's attempt to fill in the blanks inherewrt in any text: "The reader then reads 'between the lines' and IPVOILurtarily complements many of the sides of the portrayed objectivi- ties ntrt determined in the text itself. . . . I call this implementing determination the 'concretization' of the portrayed objects" (The Eflfiflljgigyn of the Literary Work, trans. Ruth Ann Crowley and Kenneth 8' Olsen) [Evanstonz Northwestern Univ. Press, 1973], pp. 52-53). Iser 1n.IhS;¢§gt of Reading_also argues that without this change the reading act would be incomplete: Thus the text provokes continually changing views in the reader. . . . It is only through readjustment of his own jprojections that the reader can experience something previously :not within his experience, and this something--as we saw in the jpreceding chapter--ranges from a detached objectification of \Nhat he is entangled in, to an experience of himself that would (otherwise be precluded by his entanglement in the pragmatic \world around him. (The Act of Reading [Baltimorez Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1980], p. 167) R0 ° - o . . In0;:m’1att expl'ains that self-evaluation is triggered in the reader the nt’ tflie reader confronts the text: 'The reader's attention to the text activates certain elements in his past experience. . . .the blueprint of this experience is the author's text, the reader feels himself in communication \vith another mind, another world. (pp. 10-11, 86) The kri Part C’owledge the reader acquires through reading, she writes, becomes the reader's "ongoing stream of his life experiences." (See 104 next chapter for a full exploration of the relationship among author, text and reader during interpretation.) 3 . . In The Act of Reading, Iser argues for the reading of literature as a communication process; the importance of a work of literature is not in its meaning, but in its effect on the reader: If fiction and reality are to be linked, it must be in terms not of opposition but of communication, for the one is not a mere opposite of the other--fiction is a means of telling us something about reality. . . . Furthermore, once the time honored opposition has been replaced by the concept of communication, attention must be paid to the hitherto recipient/ reader of the message. (p. 54) 4In this communication process, the voice is the medium of transmission working through the text. 5 . . . . I use the term inner ear and inner eye as metaphors for describing the workings of the imagination during the reading and writing processes. 6Labov's work with oral, natural narratives is found in William Labov and Joshua Waletzky, "Narrative Analysis: Oral Versions of Personal Experiences” in Essays on Visual and Aural Narratives, ed. J. Helm (Seattle and London: Univ. of Washington Press, 1970); Language in the Inner City (1976); and Sociolinguistic Patterns (Philadelphia: Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 1972). 7Pratt points out that when she uses the word novel, she is referring to both long and short fictional narratives: "Here and throughout, I use the term 'novel' as a convenient short form for literary narrative in general, that is, for the class of literary utterances which include novels, novellas, short stories, and narrative poems" (Literary Discourse, p. 51). 8”A complete narrative," Labov concludes, "begins with an orientation, proceeds to the complicating action, is suspended at the focus of evaluation before resolution, concludes with the resolution, and returns the listener to the present time with the coda" (Inner City, p. 369). 9See Pratt's chapter "The Natural Narrative" (pp. 38-70) for a fuller explanation of evaluative devices. 10Pratt also notes that the end of the text visibly signals the end of the narrative (p. 56). 11Here Pratt uses the example of "Melville's "Bartleby" and the end of Bronte's Jane Eyre, but she doesn't illustrate the other coda types. I have selected the subsequent examples to fit Pratt's defini- tions: Stephen Crane, "The Blue Hotel" in Fiction 100, ed. James H. Pickering (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1978), p. 235; H.H. Munro, "The Open Window," in The Complete Works of Saki (New York: Doubleday, 1976), p. 262. 105 12Moffett refers to the text as the medium. In previous chapters, I've talked of voice as the medium. When not working directly with Moffett, I will refer to the text as the "vehicle" through which the medium of voice operates. 13Wolfgang Iser, "The Reality of Fiction: A Functionalist Approach to Literature," New Literary History, VIII, no. 1 (1975), p. 8. Iser ' 5 Act of Reading, published three years later, expands on the theories in his 1975 article. This theory of the reading process as a communication act is developed in the book's last section, "Interaction between Text and Reader." Here he explores the conditions that give the interaction the quality of a communication act. He also outlines Roman Ingarden's theory of indeterminacy to show that certain blanks in the text necessitate the reader's response. Communication between author and reader via the text occurs as the reader fills in the text's blanks. I use Iser's adaptation of Ingarden's indeterminacy theory in my last chapter. 14J.L. Austin, How to do Things with Words, ed., J.0. Armson (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1962); John R. Searle, Speech Acts: My in the Philosophy of Language (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1969). 15 . . - Austin and Searle explain that accepted procedures are constitutive or regulative rules/conventions which legitimize the act. 16Barbara Hardy, "Towards a Poetics of Fiction: An Approach through the Narrative," Novel, 2, no. 1 (1968), p. 6. 17Hardy's argument centers on the novel form. However, her theory is not contingent upon whether the fictional narrative is long or Short . Her emphasis is on the author's purpose in using the narrative mode and what the author expects from the narrative's reader. 18See Note 3. James 19The spectator theory, analyzed in the critical works of Hardi Britton and Barbara Hardy, was originally developed by D.W. (”1100128. The spectator theory is first defined in "The Role of the the ther’" Scrutiny, VI, no. 3 (1937), pp. 247-258. .Harding applies the R eOry more directly to literature in "Psychological Processes in pp. 1:ading of Fiction," British Journal of Aesthetics, 2, no. 1 (1972), 3~~l47. Though Harding acknowledges that both writer and reader are . tor igietators, he chiefly explores the nature of the reader's specta- e . Liter 20Sherwood Anderson, "The Egg," in The Norton Introduction to 295_2at11re: Fiction, ed. James Beatty (New York: Norton, 1973), pp. 97 . (My example) blue . 21Rosenblatt (The Reader, 1978) talks about the text as the prlnt for the reader's future experiences: 106 The reader concentrating his attention on the world he [the author] has evoked feels himself freed for the time from his own preoccupations and limitations. Aware that the blueprint of this experience is the author's text, the reader feels himself in communication with another mind, another world. (13- 86) 22Britton, Language and Learning (1970), p. 101. Britton belieexres that only certain modes of writing feature the writer in the spectator role. He outlines the differences between spectator and participant modes in The Development of Writing Abilities (1978). Here,. lie lists three writing modes: transactional, poetic and expressive. The transactional mode is "an immediate means to an end in itself"; since we use transactional language to get things done, we are iii “the participant role. Poetic writing "is an immediate end in itsel:E; and not a means"; when using poetic language, we are in the spectator role. Expressive writing covers the spectrum from trans- actional to poetic writing (p. 93). . 23The basic theory of Rosenblatt's The Reader (1978) is that interpretation is the result of an interaction between the elements of the text and the reader's previous human experiences--make-up of the reader's experiential frame (pp. lO-ll). 24See Rosenblatt, The Reader, pp. 10-15. CHAPTER IV INTERPRETATION AND PRE-WRITI NG Because the reading of fiction is a communication activity, the process can provide students with something instructors cannot: a very personal, private interaction with human experience and the voice that conveys that experience. Louise Rosenblatt in Literature as EEPlCNrE11:ion (1938) writes "There is not such a thing as a generic reader or a generic literary work . . . the reading of any work of literature is, 0i? Iiecessity, an individual and unique occurence involving the mind and enn<>t:ions of a particular reader."1 This "occurrence" is the readeif's; response--interpretation of—-the literary work. The reader's I“35P0nse is an integral part of the communication process of reading. InterPretation is the reader's/listener's personalized affirmation of the existence of the author's/speaker's voice and the message that Voice conveys. Literary interpretation, the reader's response to the author's VOice 11:5 a process in which the reader discovers some relationship between the writer's vision and the reader's past experiences.2 Upon disc0\res1>ing that relationship, the reader restructures the self and may even alter individual belief systems to account for the new discovery. Throughout the process of discovery and restructuring, the reader's mice is activated; this voice communicates, both to the self and to other S » the new knowledge acquired during reading. Since voice conveys 107 108 something of the user's personality or sense of self, the voice during interpretation reflects the new self awareness the reader achieves as a result of the reading process. Interpretation is a process in which both the reader's self and the reader's experiential frame alter; the process, therefore, is an expressive one. Edward Sapir in Culture, Language and Personality (1961) argues that all linguistic activity, including reading, is expressive, because such activity involves the restructuring of self through the recollection of experience: "That language is a perfect SYmbOIism of experience, that in the actual context of behavior it cannot be divorced from action and that it is the carrier of an infinitely nuanced expressiveness are universally psychological facts" (P- 11) - An expressive activity is anything close to the self, anything which involves reconsideration of the self. The stage in the reading process in which interpretation occurs, then, is an expressive stage,4 In this expressive stage, the reader's voice is activated, Shaped and redefined. The shaping and redefining of the voice occurs as the reader's own personality changes to account for the new awareness arrived at through interpretation. When the reader interprets the text and tests that interpreta- tion through communication, the expressive stage of reading overlaps With the expressive stage of writing as defined by Janet Emig and James Britton.S According to Emig and Britton, the pre-writing stage is expl‘essive, because it is the point at which the writer explores the self and experience in preparation for writing. This stage extends fro!“ the moment students are stimulated to write to the moment they 109 put pen to paper with the intention of producing the major writing assignment. Between stimulus and production, the student publicly tests the ideas and experiences evoked by the stimulus. The stimulus for the exploration of self can come from the reading of fictional narratives.6 Interpretation of the stimulus occurs during the pre- writing stage of the composing process. As with other pre-writing activities, the reader tests the interpretation by publicly communicat- ing, orally and in writing, the knowledge acquired during writing. The stimulus activates the student's voice which communicates this kHOWI edge. Once the instructors and peers confirm the students' voice during the discussion section of pre-writing, production is POSSib 1 e. In order to understand the importance of bringing fictional narratives into the writing class to develop the student's voice, one must perceive the activities of interpretation and pre-writing as exI’I‘E’SSive, as dealing closely with the reader's/writer's self and exPerience. The expressive stage in reading must be seen as operating in the same way as does the expressive stage in writing (pre-writing); both irlvolve the discovery of self and the communication of that discoVery privately and publicly. The student's voice in both stages is act iVated and develOped. Once the act of interpretation is viewed as accomplishing what other activities in pro-writing accomplish, this activity can be apart of the pre-writing process. The reading of fict‘ lo“all narratives, then, can contribute to the composing process. 110 Interpetation: An Expressive Activity Interpretation of fictional narratives can be viewed as an expressive activity because during the process the reader's personality (sense of self) and realm of experiences are restructured; the voice is ar:1:ivated and developed throughout the restructuring process. Sapir argues for the expressiveness of all language activity for this very reasc>ri: the restructuring of self signals expressive behavior. The fact ‘tliat the reading of fiction in particular is an expressive activity is supported by the work of Rosenblatt (1978), Roman Ingarden (1973), Thomas C. Pollack (1965), James R. Squire (1964) and Maurice Merleau- Pont)' (1961).7 While Rosenblatt and Ingarden suggest this expressive- ness 13)’ looking at the influence of author and text on the restructuring Procefiiss, Pollack, Squire and Merleau-Ponty argue for the influence of the r€=3ader's past experiences on the process. Sapir in Culture, Language and Personality (1961) regards all language activity, including reading and writing, as expressive. Any encounter with language, he says, is expressive because language is the perfeCt symbol of experience: It is this constant interplay between language and experience which removes language from the cold status of such purely and simply symbolic systems as mathematical symbolism or flag signalling. This interpenetration is not only an intimate associative fact; it is also a contextual one. It is important to realize that language may not only refer to experience or even mold, interpret, and discover experience, but that it also substitutes for it in the sense that in those sequences of interpersonal behavior which form the greater part of our daily lives speech and action supplement each other and do each other's work in a web of unbroken pattern. (p. 9) Lan guage, Sapir argues, is our only link with experience. 111 According to Sapir, the communication function of language is ‘proch? of its expressiveness, for the communication of language signals the presence of a personality. Furthermore, that personality is reflected in the sound, rhythm, content of the voice through which the language operates: The fundamental quality of one's voice, the phonetic patterns of speech, the speed and relative smoothness of articulation, the length and build of the sentences, the character and range of the vocabulary, the scholastic consistency of the words used, the readiness with which words respond to the require— ments of the social environment, in particular the suitability of one's language to the language habits of the persons addressed--all these are so many complex indicators of the personality. (p. 19) Through communication of language, Sapir argues, we pass on our sense Of Self to another; we communicate our beliefs, impressions, likes, d151ilds of contribution. The author, he says, projects the reader outward, expands the reader's experiential frame and in so doing invites the reader to respond. The author achieves this expansion by initiating the reader into a world that exercises the reader's perc eptions: On the contrary, a language which gives our perspectives on things and cuts out relief in them opens up a discussion which does not end with the language and itself invites further investigation. WhatisLirreplaceable in the work of art? What makes it far more a voice of the spirit, whose analogue is found in all productive philOSOphic or political thought, than a means to pleasure? The fact that it contains, better than ideas, matrices of ideas--the fact that it provides us with symbols whose meaning we never stop develOping. (p. 77) According to Merleau-Ponty, the initiation occurs throughout the reader's interactionwith the text and after the text has been put aside and the readexr- continues to dwell on the author's vision. The reading of a literwaicy'work, he argues, is provocative and its understanding limitless. A second responsibility of the author, according to Merleau- Pont)’, is to set up a model of experience, to portray life's conflicts, to 180late them and to identify them for the reader. A writer takes a possible experience, one the reader can recognize, and sharpens it: The novelist speaks for his reader, and every man to every other, the language of the initiated--initiated into the world and into the universe of possibilities confined in a human body and a human life. What he has to say he supposes known. He takes up his dwelling in a character's behavior and gives the readercnfljra suggestion of it, its nervous and peremptory trace in the surroundings. (p. 76) Co - , Imn11r1143ation with the reader is achieved when the author engages the rea der, frees the reader from the limitations of reader's own world and 114 opens the reader to the author's world. The reader is reminded of the reader's own experiences by "joining the author at the virtual center of the writing" and discovering the author's vision. The effect, according to Merleau-Ponty, of the author's influence on the reader is expressive. The reader, exposed to a world different from but nonetheless important to the reader's own world, begins looking inward and bridges the gap between the reader's self and the world of the author: Precisely because it dwells and makes us dwell in a world we do not have the key to, the work of art teaches us to see and ultimately gives us something to think about as no analytical work can; because when we analyze an object, we find only what we have put into it. . . . We could not see anything if our eyes did not give us the means of catching, questioning, and giving form to an indefinite number of configurations of space and color. We would not do anything if our body did not enable us to leap over all the neural and muscular means of locomotion in order to move to the goal. Literary language fills the same kind of office. (pp. 77-78) Interpretation, then, is not a process of discovering a meaning alien to the reader's world; the author gives the reader perspectives on life that confirm the reader's place in the world that the reader knows and is trying to understand. Since the author's relationship to the reader affects interpretation, so too must the text, the vehicle conveying the author's voice. Rosenblatt in Reader, Text and Poem (1978) uses the text and the author interchangeablytx>acknowledge the influence of the author and text on the reader's response. Rosenblatt's transactional theory of the reading act suggests that the author, through the text, contri- butes to the shaping of the reader's expressive response.8 According 115 to the transactional theory, the author acts like a teacher instructing the reader/student on something not to be found outside the text: The importance of the text is not denied by recognition of its openness. The text is the author's means of directing the attention of the reader. The author has looked at life from a particular angle of vision; he has selected out what he hopes will fulfill his aim, as Conrad phrased it, to make you see, to make you hear, to make you feel. The reader, concentrating his attention on the world he has evoked, feels himself freed for the time from his own preoccupations and limitations. Aware that the blueprint of his experience is the author's text, the reader feels himself in communication with another mind, another world. (p. 86) The author stimulates the reader to respond by offering the reader the text which conveys a particular experience thatrmnrseem different to the reader, but not at all alien to the reader's referential system. The author through the text provides the guidelines for the reader's new awareness of self. The author, according to Rosenblatt, uses a series of signs, interpretable as linguistic symbols, to stimulate the reader's response. The reader's action on the text's linguistic symbols constitutes the interpretative process: The reader's attention to the text activates certain elements in his past experience--external reference, internal response--that have become linked with the verbal symbols. Meaning will emerge from a network of relationships among the things symbolized as he senses them. The symbols point to these sensations, images, objects, ideas, relationships, with the particular associations or feeling-tones created by his past experiences with them in actual life or in literature. (p- 11) Interpretation is the reader's effort to fuse ideas and feelings, associations and attitudes, that the linguistic symbols call forth. 116 According to Rosenblatt, the reader's action on the text can 1:21ke one of two forms: the ordering and affirming of past experiences, ()1? the ordering and rejecting of past experiences: The selection and organization of responses to some degree hinge on the assumptions, the expectations, or sense of possible structures that he brings out of the stream of his life. Thus built into the raw material of the literary process is the particular world of the reader. But the text may also lead him to be critical of those prior assumptions and associations—-as was the reader with too vivid a recollection of an actor's quarrel. (p. 11) Iii t:he latter case, she continues, the reader may have discovered that the reader projected on the text elements of a past experience thElt: \vere not relevant to the text, i.e., "not susceptible of coherent incorporation into the text" (p. 11). The reader's attempt at disczcaiiering why these elements have been recalled and why they seem to bear? 110 relationship to the text will also lead to a new self awareness, according to Rosenblatt. Whether the interpretation involves an affirmation or criticism 0f Past experiences, and/or values, Rosenblatt emphasizes, the reader's reSPCDTISBe is always active, self-ordering and self correcting. Crucial to irltlez retation is the reader's active contribution in this self- 'IP correcIting process. The text evokes images, feelings, attitudes and a ~ . . SSDeletions in the reader and demands that the reader make some sense of . . . tlleenn in terms of the reader's own pre-notions of the subject. The rea . . . . dfial? .actively responds to the demands by adjusting the pre-notions to _ _ aceOunt for the acquisition of new knowledge; the reader engages in se1 .~ _ f QCDrrecting: 117 Under the magnetism of the ordered symbols of the text, he marshals his resources and crystallizes out from the stuff of memory, thought, and feeling a new order, a new experience, which he sees as the poem. This becomes part of the ongoing stream of his life experience, to be reflected on from any angle important to him as a human being. (p. 12) The reader brings experience and personality to the text; in the creation of the literary work (interpretation), the reader discovers a redefined experience and personality.9 Roman Ingarden in The Cognition of the Literary Work (1973) and 'The Literary Work of Art (1973) believes, like Rosenblatt, that the :reading process involves a complex interaction between author and lseader through the text; the result for the reader is an aesthetic erxperience which involves the author and in some way changes the reader. Iiigarden uses different terms to define the same activities that Rosenblatt identifies. In Cognition, Ingarden explores the reader's aesthetic eDcperience. Anticipating Rosenblatt's transactional theory, Ingarden Sélys that early in the aesthetic experience, the reader works along with tile author, using the author's text to become a cocreator of the lfliterary work. As cocreator, the reader does not discover the exact \Iision the writer had in mind when producing the literary work; the ‘reader discovers instead another individualized reading: The reader then reads "between the lines" and involuntarily complements many of the sides of the portrayed objectivities not determined in the text itself, through an "overexplicit" understanding of the sentences and especially of the nouns appearing in them. I call this complementing determination the "concretization" of the portrayed objects. In concretization the peculiar cocreative activity of the reader comes into play. (pp. 52—53) ‘9’ -_lo!' " 118 Only an active reading, however, permits the reader to discover it in its peculiar, characteristic structure and in its full detail. But this cannot be accomplished through a mere apprehension of the individual intentional states of affairs belonging to the sentences. We must progress from these stages of affairs to their diverse interconnections and then to the objects (things, events) which are portrayed in the states of affairs. But in order to achieve an aesthetic apprehension of the stratum of objects in its often complex structure, the active reader, after he has discovered and reconstructed this stratum, must, as we shall see, go beyond it, especially beyond various details, explicitly indicated by the sentence meanings, and must supplement in many directions what is portrayed. And in so doing, the reader to some extent proves to be the cocreator of the literary work. (p. 41) Ingarden's "cocreator" theory resembles Rosenblatt's "completion-of- the-text" theory. According to both, the reader completes the intention of the text by serving as the text's cocreator. The reader, Ingarden argues, becomes a cocreator by filling in the blanks of the text. According to Ingarden, the literary work, by the very nature of the genre, contains indeterminacies or blanks. Cognition, interpretation, creation, occurs as the reader fills in these blanks from the perspective of the reader's own world: The literary work, and the literary work of art in particular, is a schematic formation (see Assertion 7, 5, 4). At least some of its strata, especially the objective stratum, contain a series of "places of indeterminacy." We find such a place of indeterminacy wherever it is impossible, on the basis of the sentences in the work, to say whether a certain object or objective situation has a certain attribute. . . . The presence of places of indeterminacy is not accidental, the result of faulty composition. Rather, it is necessary in every literary work of art. It is impossible to establish clearly and exhaustively the infinite multiplicity of determinacies of the individual objects portrayed in the work with a finite number of words or sentences. Some of the determinacies must always be missing. (pp. 50, 51) Because of these indeterminacies, Ingarden explains, different interpre- tations of a literary work can occur, even by the same reader in 119 different readings: How this happens in specific cases depends upon the peculiari- ties of the work itself and also on the reader, on the state or attitude in which he finds himself at the moment. As a result, significant differences can exist among concretizations of the same work, even when the concretizations are accomplished by the same reader in different readings. (p. 53) The aesthetic experience of a literary work occurs, then, according to Ingarden, upon the active involvement of the reader with the text and by extension with the author.10 The reader's active involvement is important to the interpre- tive stage. According to Rosenblatt, the text is the symbol of the writer's experience and a blueprint of the reader's. According to Ingarden, the writer's vision is in the text, but because of the text's indeterminacies, so is the reader's. Through voice, the writer evokes interpretation in the reader. The text, then, is both the reader's means of understanding the author's vision and a plan for new and renewed experiences for the reader. The result of the reader's active involvement in interpretation is a new self-awareness, a change in the make-up of the reader and the reader's experiential frame.11 Implicit in the work of Ingarden and Rosenblatt is the importance of the reader's personality and experiences to the reader's active involvement with the text (interpretation). The interpretive function of personality and experience is at the center of the work of literary critic Thomas C. Pollack (1965), researcher James R. Squire (1964) and philosopher Merleau-Ponty (1961). These theorists provide three complementary perspectives on the function of the reader's experiential background and personality and what happens to both during the expressive process of interpretation. 120 Pollack in The Nature of Literature (1965) emphasizes that the reader's personal experiences are a major element in interpretation. He suggests that during the reading act, verbal stimuli evoke the reader's past experiences and the contemplation of these experiences constitutes the reading act: Literature (L) may be defined as the utterance of a series of symbols capable of evoking in the mind of a reader a controlled experience (E). This iscfl?course a contracted definition. A somewhat fuller statement would be that it has as its purpose the expression of an experience (E) of a writer through the utterance of a series of symbols capable of evoking in the mind of a properly qualified reader a controlled experience (E) similar to, though of course not identical with, that of the writer. This is the use of language with which we are familiar in novels, short stories, poems, and plays, and which we have been tending, as I pointed out in Chapter I, to symbolize by the world of literature. . . . It will thus be seen that the major part of the reality of language lies not in the external signs, which through the mechanics of writing may be isolated and indefinitely preserved but in the experiences of the human beings by whom the signs are produced and received. (pp. 96—97, 98) Pollack's definition of literary discourse centers on the author's evocation of and the reader's contemplation of the reader's experience. In his study, Pollack carefully traces the stages in this evocation and contemplation (interpretation) of the literary work. He explains that the author's psycho-physi010gical activity (recreation of experience) produces a certain series of symbols which initiate the psycho-physiological activity in the reader: The three major steps in this process are (l) the activity of the person producing the signs, (2) the signs themselves as extra-organic physical occurrences, such as air-waves or marks on paper, and (3) the activity of the person receiving the signs. (p. 48) The psycho-phyiosolOgical activity in the third stage, Pollack 121 continues, involves the recall and contemplation of experience. The contemplation of the experience results in the restructuring of the reader's sense of self. The reader attempts to incorporate the knowledge of self through interaction with the signs. The recall, contemplation and restructuring are the main element of psycho- physiological (another term for expressive) activity. Such activity, he emphasizes, occurs in both writers and readers. Pollack believes that different interpretations of a text occur because no two human beings have the same set of experiences and, therefore, different psycho-physiological behavior. No two individuals, he argues, will relate to the text (signs) in the same way; each will bring to it a different set of experiences. Certain symbols can evoke similar responses, but overall, no two individuals will respond in exactly the same manner: The actual human experiences (E) of different human beings even in the same room at the same moment are not identical. We can frequently isolate publicly discriminable elements or characteristics which are the same in many private experiences (E); but from this we must not draw the unwarranted inference that therefore the private experiences (E) involved are exactly the same. This is a general truth, and it is true of literature (L). We sometimes say, in useful shortcut speech, that a writer "communicates" his experience to a reader. This does not mean that the total actual experience (E) which the writer attempts to express is by some linguistic miracle taken out of his life in a solid chunk and placed whole in the cranium of a reader. Such a notion is of course nonsense. (p. 107) The past experience that the reader brings to the writing act is crucial to the uniqueness of the reader's interpretation. According to Pollack, these experiences are a major contribution to an interpretation of the text. 122 In a 1964 study, James R. Squire also argues the importance of the reader's personality and past experiences to the interpretation process. This conclusionissbased on his research of adolescent responses to short fiction. His aim was to study comprehension and the way interpretation deve10ps: The study has four dimensions: a. It seeks to provide an overall description of the responses of these students to the four stories. b. It seeks to describe the ways in which these responses deve10p during the reading of a short story. c. It seeks to relate these responses to the intelligence, socio-economic backgrounds, reading abilities, and other personal characteristics of the readers. d. It seeks to analyze the factors which limit and constrict the responses of these readers and thus create barriers to sound interpretationszice exercises useful in Unit One (narration of experience). The PuI‘pose of Oral Reading is to show students that two voices--the ‘”Ifiter's and reader's--can be heard when someone reads aloud a piece ‘Wristten by another. Walter J. Ong in The Barbarian Within (1962) exPlains the presence of these two voices: 179 Speaking and hearing are not simple operations. Each exhibits a dialectical structure which mirrors the mysterious depths of man's psyche. As he composes his thoughts in words, a speaker or writer hears these words echoing within himself and thereby follows his own thoughts,as though he were another person. Conversely, a hearer or reader repeats within himself the words he hears and thereby understands them, as though he were himself two individuals. (p. 51) 'The Oral Reading Exercise is the first occasion in which the students Ilear their voice as something different from the voice evident in the Inaterial they read. The instructor chooses a narrative with a strong voice, one sstudents will not read in their out-of—class assignments.14 The jgnstructor selects two readers from the class (or students will ‘vralunteer). One student reads a portion of the narrative aloud for zituout fifteen minutes and a discussion follows. During the discussion, ‘tlle class listens for the writer's voice (message, diction, structure) Elrnd the reader's voice (intonation, pauses, emphasis). After the rGrading, the instructor asks the students to identify the writer's Inessage, attitude towards audience and the movement of the piece-- mo‘vement refers to the internal rhythms of the writer's discourse (slow, £5tlaccato, fast-paced). Students then identify the reader's attitude 1:Cnnrards the material; they cite specific examples of this attitude: high IJthch vs. low pitch, pauses, emphasis, intonation, etc. Finally the sytlldent reader analyzes the reading and tries to provide reasons for the Fuillses, emphasis, intonation, etc., used. The exercise is then rePeated with a different reader and a different passage from the same narI‘ative (to avoid possible imitation of reading style). The same dlscussion is repeated after the second reading. 5 w... .. u.— _nh—_ -. 180 In the discussion that follows both readings, students notice the presence of two voices: the writer's and the reader's. The students can see that neither of the two readings is like the other, because no two voices are alike. Each reader perceives the narrative differently and, therefore, each reads it aloud differently. The intonations, for example, of each reader vary. The first introduction to the concept of \roice is a very easy one for the students. They may not fully under- - —-:3"F( satand the voice properties of discourse; but they know voice exists, IJecause they can hear it. The One—Word Experience Exercise is another spoken exercise that (:an be used in the first unit. Adapted from John Schultz's story vvorkshop exercise, the One-Word Exercise is a very expressive one in ‘vltich the instructor coaches the students to probe immediate and/or Inast experiences. Schultz views the exercise as drawing directly upon "physical voice," as reaching immediately past superficial, direct associations to get a response from deeper levels of association. The parti- cipants do not deny their direct associations or their use but reach past them. ("Story Workshop," p. 157, 155) 'TTle exercise is self actualizing for the students as they probe their experiences and beliefs. Since the exercise occurs after the interpre- 1Zi‘ve activity, the reading experience may condition the recollections. I5t is not crucial that the recollections be the same as those during iIl'terpretation. What is important is that the voice activity continues tile! self evaluation process begun during interpretive activity. In the One-Word Experience Exercise, students build ideas from ““31115 and images. The exercise begins as the instructor asks each student 181 to give a word. In the succeeding rounds, students explain what the word evokes in each of them, what it makes them feel, smell, hear and taste: "'See what each word gives you to see! Now listen to your voicel'" ("Story Workshop," p. 156). During each round, student responses are all single words until the final round when the instructor zasks students what experiences the word makes them see. The instructor :regulates the number of rounds until the experiences begin to crystallize :for the students. In the last round, students identify the experience 'they see and the people and background of that experience. The students t:hen discuss each other's experiences and the meaning of the experience iFor them, now and when it occurred. The One-Word Experience Exercise can become confusing with more tflian fifteen students. In this case, the instructor can ask students to j<>t down words as they come to the students. When it is their turn to SIJeak, the students can refer to their writing for the words recalled VVIIile others were speaking. The exercise, however, does not have to operate in a sequence of rounds; students can volunteer or the instructor <3Etn call on students out of sequence. According to Betty Shiflett's <3)cplanation of the One-Word Story Workshop Exercise, calling on students <>llt of sequence demonstrates "to the student that he does not need to Prepare his response ahead of time; in other words he does not need to 'Iblan everything' in order to respond at his best level" (p. 151). The Place and Person Exercises (Units Two and Three) operate in ‘1 Inanner similar to the One-Word Experience Exercise. In these exercises, Students choose a place (or person) that is familiar. The students then ‘tIVIVel with their inner eye through the place (or over the shapes and __... . I R an an. 182 features of the person) and describe what is seen. Students can volunteer their images or the instructor can call on them in or out of sequence. Students pay close attention to their senses as their images take shape. In order to help each other shape the images, students pose (questions throughout the exercise: (1) What do you see? (2) How does it make you feel? (3) Are you reminded of any experiences? iIrlanswering these questions, students work towards a detailed description c>f the place (or person) and any feelings or experiences associated with tdiat place (or person). By the end of the exercise each student has Incrved from a vague image to a description rich with feeling and voice. The One-Word Experience and the Place and Person Exercises aLllow students to see theirs and other voices develop. Students "tune" each other's voice by stimulating each other's ideas. Students also eTlcourage their peers to reject ideas they are not ready to explore. 'TTlezstudent who goes through the process of rejecting ideas is more l-ikely to find one that is comfortable, one the student is ready to <3C>Inmunicate in spoken or written discourse. If a student's idea changes "lixiway through the exercise, instructor and students coach that student ‘tlllmough the whole process again, from word to idea to complete description. These spoken voice exercises in each unit are not over until students are satisfied with their incubating ideas and the voice expressing thOse ideas; they are then ready for the production stage. Spoken voice exercises are part of the first three units; these exe‘rcises sharpen the student's spoken voice. Students complete two .~7‘ ‘ -“‘ \ 183 written exercises (Issue and Letter) in the fourth unit. These exercises further develop the student's voice while teaching students about the function of voice. One of these exercises, the Issue Exer- cise, is directly related to the unit's topic: philosophy of life/issue. Both exercises help students to shape their voice and to learn the importance of role and knowing your audience in the production of a Inrose rich in voice. In the Issue Exercise, students continue incubating ideas (stimulated during interpretive activity) in preparation for the major vvriting assignment; they also learn from the exercises about the elements c>f voice and the voice properties of argument/persuasion/philosophy of J ife papers. Throughout the exercise, students work with ideas they may lzater use in the major writing assignment. In some instances, the Iweading assignment has already crystallized an idea they intend to use; 111 this exercise, then, students further explore that idea. The Issue Exercise also emphasizes the ways voice functions in argument/persuasion/ IDIIilosophy of life prose. Students discover that role shapes the VOzice; they discover the importance of attitude towards subject and audience in the production of an argument/persuasion/philosophy of life Paper with an identifiable voice. The Issue Exercise begins astflmainstructor provides the students “Visth a sample position paper (a past student paper with an identifiable ‘VCIice serves as a good sample). The instructor provides the students with a list of issue and philosophy of life tOpics;16 they select one from the list (or one of their own choice) about which they have strong CWRiIlions. Using the sample's voice--be1iefs, attitude towards subject 184 and audience, language and structure-~students write approximately 300 to 400 words on the chosen topic. In their written product, students use the language and structure readily evident from the sample piece. The writer's beliefs on the chosen topic and the role the writer would assume for the topic is more difficult to determine. Discussion follows completion of the exercise as students look at the elements of 'voice in and the voice properties of the finished product. A persuasion paper I received in an out-of—class assignment for t3eginning composition has yielded positive results as the issue exercise's :5ample. Entitled, "Sex is Passéi" the paper features very identifiable \Joice properties; the persona is interesting, the structure is filled vvith surprising twists, and the writer exhibits a strong commitment to 1115 subject and a knowledge of his audience. In general, Jim's (the 811thor's) voice is evident from the effusive ego that permeates every Ertatement. The paper begins by emphasizing the seriousness and ianortance of the subject and Jim's qualifications to pursue the topic: Simplicity is the earmark of both common sense and the finest creative thought. PhiIOSOphers and plain folks alike recognize that the simplist solution to any problem is the best solution. As a citizen and an intellectual, I feel a duty to help solve society's problems. This spring, one problem in particular has become so pervasive that I have taken it upon myself to find an answer. After devoting many hours of study and reflection to the problem, I feel, with modest pride, that I have hit on an insightful formulation of the problem, and a simple, direct solution. This solution comes just in time, for the problem is a serious one. It is more time-consuming than any term paper, faster growing than grade inflation, more worrisome than any career decision. I am referring, as you may have already surmised, to the problem of our endless preoccupation with obtaining sexual fulfillment. 185 He continues, through a language rich in specifics, to outline the problems presented by lack of sexual gratification in our society: . And when the students leave the class, their problems multiply. A student stays cooped up in his (or her) room until the heat becomes unbearable. He goes outside to cool off, but encounters there the tanned, scantily clad bodies of his fellow students, which serve only to raise his temperature more. If the student goes back to the dorm or apartment, there is still no escape. The television commercials all try to sell products by titillating the viewer with lurid fantasies: "If you buy our mouthwash (perfume, razor blades, shampoo, catfood, whatever) this and this and this will happen to you, . . " Gossiping friends are no distraction from the subject; their conversation seems to exist entirely of who did what to whom, or wanted to do what to whom, or frantically tried to do what to whom. If the student retreats to the library, the proximity of warm young bodies serves to dangle temptation in his or her face; and even in the secluded areas of the library, tasteless, stimulating graffiti dogs the student with sex, sex, sex. The only places left to go are the crowded bars and restaurants, where the spectacle of other students oggling each other desperately is scarcely uplifting. and the possible solutions: Most students, unaware that there is a sure-fire and simple way out of these difficulties, try to solve the problem of sexual preoccupation by going on dates--a pathetic error that, like struggling when trapped in quicksand, only makes matters worse. . . . One way out of this uncertainty is to form a relationship. Unfortunately, this immediately entangles helpless individuals in all kinds of difficulties. Summer break, career goals, and graduation threaten ongoing relation- ships, as does the temptation of 48,000 panting young people flaunting themselves in the immediate vicinity. . . . The facts stare us in the face: the more you try to satisfy sexual cravings, the more miserable you become. The only solution, as I see it, is for students and other regular people to give up sexual behavior entirely. Sex for regular people is rapidly become passe; sex should be left to the professionals, who are much better paid and better qualified. 7116 solution Jim ultimately chooses is not surprising; throughout the I3i£3ce, his mask or persona is that of one who "doth protest too much": 186 I suppose a small minority of backward individuals will resist my proposal. I was talking to my friend Neil last night, who had the temerity to argue that the advantages of actual sex make up for the disadvantages. . . . This is certainly a reactionary position. Yet, some impulse--no doubt, scientific objectivity--moves me to consider giving his method a trial. I am only taking a few classes this summer, and I was looking for an extra project anyway. So, just to be fair, I have decided to dedicate my summer to trying Neil's approach. If you would like to know the results of my research, feel free to look me up this fall. Or, if you don't have anything to do this summer . From start to finish, this humorous persuasive paper is rich in voice.17 Students can hear the aggressive voice in Jim's paper; his language is specific and forceful and the structural twists prepare the students for the final solution. Active student response is one indication the piece is filled with voice: some readers are angry, others entertained; some women claim his male chauvinism is detestable; other women wonder if I still have his name, address and phone number. From this sample, students can learn the importance of the "right" persona or role (one that fits the subject); the necessity to be committed to one's subject; and the value of detailed language in creating an identifiable voice. They can also learn how crucial voice is in eliciting the reader's active response. The sample paper, "Sex is Passe" can stimulate many in-class position/philosophy of life papers rich in voice. "The Trials of Short People" is one interesting product of a student's exposure to this sample. Vicki, the author, found her voice in the imitation of Jim's.18 Her paper is filled with concrete language and a structure that supports her argument. Her voice, like Jim's, is aggressive and interesting. That voice clearly reflects Vicki's foreceful, vibrant and somewhat political personality. 187 Vicki's two-page in-class paper developed into her four-page typed major writing assignment for the unit. The early paragraphs of the major assignment were written during the in-class issue exercise. Like Jim, Vicki begins her major paper by emphasizing the serousness of her topic and her qualifications to explore it: Handicappers, Blacks, Mexicans, women or any other minority group continuously complain about being discriminated and rightfully so. I believe one of the biggest minority groups being discriminated against, whom you seldom hear about, is short people. They do not demonstrate for their rights or advertise their plight. They just passively face the conse- quences of being short. It seems short people have just grown accustomed to the fact that they will never be able to sit in a chair like "normal” people. Chair seats are always too high to have their feet flat on the floor. If they can touch the floor at all, it is usually just with the tips of their toes, which does not make sitting for long periods of time very comfortable. If they happen to be sitting at a table, it is twice as awkward because the surface of the table is almost level with their necks. She continues to study the problems using concrete diction and employing a tone of resentment: Most people do not find grocery shopping a strenuous task. They probably don't even consider all the obstacles that prevent short people from enjoying shopping. Anything above the fourth shelf is almost inaccessable. Short people are forced to perform acrobatics while in the store by jumping up and down and trying to knock a box off the fifth shelf in hopes of catching it when it drops. . . . Most people don't look forward to going to the dentist for obvious reasons, such as the pain involved or the amount of money it will cost. Short people detest going to the dentist because it is such a challenge trying to get all the way up into the chair. . . . Most people consider driving a car a leisure activity, but for short people it is almost strenuous. The seat never goes forward far enough to comfortably reach the gas pedal. . . . What most taller people do not realize is that when they are walking with a short person, they need to slow down. It is not uncommon to see a tall person striding along with a short person running beside them. 188 Though her solutions are scarce and the paper doesn't end with the strength of voice that Jim's does, Vicki's overall attempt at producing persuasive prose rich in voice was successful. Student responses again certified that success. As one student said, "You know I never realized how low dentist chairs were.” The Issue Exercise provides students with an opportunity to experiment with and discover voice elements—-personality and role--and voice properties of discourse--beliefs and style--as they did in the interpretive activity. A second exercise of Unit Four, the Letter Exercise, is another opportunity for students to work with the elements of voice and voice prOperties of discourse. The Letter Exercise can operate in several ways. In one method, discussed in Chapter II, students produce two letters, each containing the same information but addressed to two different audiences. In this exercise, students find themselves altering role or persona as the audience changes; they also regulate the language and amount of information each audience receives. In the discussion that follows, students discover that in both letters, the voice alters to accommodate the change in audience; the role the writer in each letter assumes is the major element of voice that changes. In another letter exercise that achieves similar results, students write a letter to someone with whom they are angry; the time limit is 15 minutes. The instructor informs students that the letter will not be mailed. Students have no trouble with this topic. They vehemently vent their frustrations at parents, the university, teachers, the U.S., dormitories, etc. After students complete this part of the exercise, the letters are read aloud and discussed. Students identify 189 voice by looking at the personality behind the letter, the attitude towards the material and the language and structure of the letter. In addition, they describe the role or persona of the piece. In the second part of the assignment, the instructor informs the students that the letter will now be mailed. They are given another 15 minutes to alter the letter, if they wish, because their audience has now become real, palpable. Most students eliminate information and alter the persona. When asked to justify the changes, in the discussion that follows, students point to the undesirable consequences now that an audience will receive the letter. Perhaps the receiver will mis- understand or completely reject the writer; according to the students, they may quickly lose the cause for which they are angry. The students find a compromise voice in the mailed letter; they make their point without alienating their audience. During discussion, students rec0gnize that role is again the element of voice that alters to accommodate the audience.19 The following sample letters indicate a voice change (change in persona, role) from Letter #1 to Letter #2; in the second letter, the writer realizes that the addressee will now receive the letter. The change in attitude towards audience, from anger to desperation, influences the role chosen for the second letter: Letter #1 Dear Mom and Dad: I have just heard that my wisdom teeth have to come out. This will cost several hundred dollars. I have no money. I also have an extension on my tuition since I can't pay that either. 190 I think it's lousy you pay for John's tuition and cut off my funds. And now I hear you are going on a cruise. Shit. How can you go on a cruise when I've got a financial crisis. I can't take this anymore. My job barely pays for my living expenses. I have no credit to borrow. Student loans are scarce. And you say I can't come home if I quit school. Well if I don't quit school, I'll be kicked out for failure to pay my debts. The least you can do is help me out instead of going on that goddam cruise. Lynn Letter #2 Dear Mom and Dad: I hope this reaches you before you leave because I am in a financial bind. I am overdue on tuition, my wisdom teeth need pulling and the only money I have is what I made at the store. This barely pays for my living. It looks like if I don't get some money soon, MSU won't let me stay. Also the dentist says my teeth are imbedded and they have to be pulled right away. Loans are scarce here and I can't put in more time at work. Please help soon. Lynn Letter #1 rambles and is filled with angry statements and innuendos. Two pieces of very condemnatory information stand out in the first letter: (1) John has money from their parents, Lynn does not and (2) her parents are using what money they do have to go on vacation. The voice is that of an angry individual who sees her role as a very condemnatory one; her criticism is much more forceful than her plea for more money. Letter #2, on the other hand, is less alienating. The tone is desperate but not angry. The prose is more controlled and logical; the writer does not ramble as in the first letter and the two pieces of 191 condemnatory information are missing. The voice is that of a desperate individual who sees her role in the letter as pleading for help. Lynn admitted that she was still angry when she wrote the second letter; but she realized that a letter like the first would only anger her parents. As a result they might not respond to her need for money. She believed that a less aggressive letter would produce the desired results. Lynn changed her persona, her role and therefore her voice to accommodate her audience. By Unit Five (autobiography) students have studied the elements of voice and the voice properties of spoken and written discourse throughout the Voice Activity section. Intfluaremaining voice exercises, students look at the way spoken and written voices are related. At the same time, they again study the connection between voice and personality, and voice, message and style. The major exercises of this unit are the Dialogue and Eavesdropping. The Dialogue Exercise involves two activities: tape recording and inventing. A few days before the scheduled dialogue exercise, students tape-record a conversation between themselves and a family member, friend or other acquaintance. (They do not inform the other member of the conversation that it is being recorded until afterwards.) The conversation should contain some substantial material, not just idle chit chat. Students transcribe one or two typed pages of the conversa- tion and bring both tape and transcription to class on the day of the Dialogue Exercise. Intfluefirst 15 minutes of the in—class exercise, students write another diaIOgue from memory or invent one that could have taken place between themselves and another individual. Their only 192 restriction is that the dialogue must be different from the one recorded. After the students complete their dialogue, the instructor selects (or students will volunteer) dialogues for class discussion. Tapes of the recorded dialogues and transcriptions are presented to the class and also discussed. All dialogues are explored for their "believability": students describe the voices heard and they identify personalities behind the voices and the message and style of the voices. The students' comparison of the recorded, transcribed and in- class dialogues often reveals a lack voice in the in—class dialogues and to a lesser extent in the transcribed dialogue. For many students, this is the first time they have written dialogue; some resort to cliches and stereotypical situations: female student meets male student; a dorm conversation; a comparison of class grades, etc. They do not yet see the importance of language and structure in the creation of written dialogue with a voice as rich as that created for spoken dialogue. Consequently, their first attempt at dialogue is often voiceless. The sample dialogues below are from the first round of the exercise. Both present a stereotypical situation; the diction in both is flat and uninteresting. In general, the dialogues fail to move in any productive direction. Consequently, the dialogues are voiceless: Dialogue #1 K. Hi A1. A. Hi! What's new? K. I talked to MOm today and she said we are not going to Florida this winter. A. Why? K. Too cold. She'd rather go this spring. A. What else is going on with the family? K. Dad is out of town and Melanie still hasn't gotten paid yet. 193 A. How is rooming with Carol? Interesting, dull, boring, rowdy? K. Al, she's weird! Sheis.acting different than last year. She is having Suzy up this weekend and Allison, you know I can't stand her! A. Sleep over at the house. You will have to sleep on the floor because I'm not giving up my bed and I can't ask Calahan to sleep on the floor although she would. The house will be up early because of the game, but please don't wake me up. Dialogue #2 No #6 - Hey, what are you gonna do your paper on? Me - I think I will do it on inequality in America. No #6 - Say what? Shouldn't it be about equality in America? ME - No. The problem is that everyone talks about equality, but no one practices it. No #6 - Okay, if we don't have equality, what do we have? Me — Inequality, the total opposite. No #6 - You're kidding, how can that be? Me - Very easily, because I think that total equality would be absurd or ludicrous, plus the fact that most people don't want equality of other people, specifically those who are already tasting the fruits of wealth. They figure if they are equal with everyone else, then the whole concept of wealth, power, dominance is shattered. No #6 - So, what does that mean? Me - What it means is that we will not have equality in this country as long as inequality prevails. In the above dialogues, the speaker's lack of attitude towards subject and the use of cliché’statements result in the absence of persona, or voice. Also, the authors are not using language, punctuation and structure to help convey the voice. Both dialogues need personality, need voice. The transcribed dialogues in the exercise reveal more voice because the dialogue situations are less stereotyped; the students decided to tape the dialogues on the basis of their informative quality. But their first attempt at transcription results in a written dialogue that lacks proper punctuation, pauses, intonations, emphasis. The 194 transcription also lacks parenthetical descriptions to replace the irltzeejjpersonal exchange that accompanies spoken dialogue. In the sample ‘bealtavv, the situation is interesting, but the personality behind the voices, particularly the father's, is difficult to identify: Dialogue #3 - Hi Dad, how are you? - Good, how are you doing? Are you studying? - No. I'm not studying today, I don't feel like it. - What's the matter with you? Are you sick or what? - Well Dad, I got fired from my job yesterday. - Why, what did you do wrong? - I don't know, he said he didn't like my attitude. He said it didn't look like I cared about my job. - Did you ask him to give you one more chance? - No, after he told me I didn't care about my job. I called him an asshole and broke the lamp on his desk - Why do you have such a temper? You have to learn to control it. - I tried but he made me do it. What could I do. I didn't want to stand there and listen to his bullshit. - But you have to learn to control it. jrrlei transcriber does not indicate any pauses and does not punctuate the dialogue for emphasis or intonation. In addition, the transcriber does n0t use any parenthetical descriptions to assist in identifying the =3peakers. Consequently, the father's attitude towards his daughter and tihe issue they are discussing are not clear. We can tell that he is upset E1nd perhaps angry by the situation, but we are not sure of the degree or (lirection of that anger. In the transition from spoken to written dialo- gue something of his voice has been lost. The loss of voice in the transcribed dialogue does not mean that the written and spoken voices are different. The voice one uses to speak is the same as the voice one uses to write. The vehicle transmitting the voice changes. In spoken dialogue, sound and interpersonal gestures 195 c21171?)7 the speaker's voice. In written dialogue, the textual symbols are the vehicle conveying the written voice. Louise Rosenblatt in Reader (1978) defines the text as a series of signs which can be i111:eearpreted as linguistic symbols. The textual marks (punctuation, 51321czees, words) are not simply ink spots on the page. They are visual aricl ziuditory signs that "become words, by virtue of their being IKtheerltially recognizable as pointing beyond themselves” (p. 12). In WI?5.1:t:en dialogue, then, the textual symbols must carry the speaker's luillssees and convey the speaker's intonations and emphasis. If the textual S)Cnnt>c>ls do not fully represent the linguistic exchange, the text will be V0iceless. A word for word transcription of a spoken dialogue is not a gllélararntee that voice will be present. The transcriber of spoken dialo- g11€3 Inust work with the textual symbols giving them the interpretive Potential of linguistic symbols. In this way the voice is not lost in the transition from spoken to written dialogue. The students experience with all the dialogues in the first I‘O'Lmd of the Dialogue Exercise emphasizes the importance of individualiz- jiTlg dialogues, of shaping textual symbols: language, structure, punctuation, t4) replace the spoken symbols of intonations, pauses, emphasis. Students Ellso realize that they can replace interpersonal gestures of linguistic fiaxchange with brief descriptions before or after the written lines of (iialogue. They are now ready to product written dialogue with a voice. In the second round of the exercise, students are free to rewrite the transcribed dialogue or in-class dialogue, or produce a new one. The dialogue below was written in the second round by the author of Dialogue #2: 196 Dialogue #4 - Brian, it's time to go to school. - I can't mom, my leg is too hemorrhaged. Please bring me an ice pack, pills and call the paramedics to do my shot. I just can't handle doing my own shot today. Brian, your leg is not that bad. I want you to get dressed and do a shot, and go to school anyway. If it gets bad in school, I'll bring you back home. Maaaammm! (Stomping, slamming of doors, cussing) Brian you always seem to have a miraculous recovery just about the time the school bus pulls up after school and the boys want you to play ball. — Can I help it if I have great recuperative powers, Mom? - Brian, you will have to go to school if I have to hog tie you in a wheelchair. You can be in pain there just as well as at home. And besides, someday you'll have a job to go to and you'll have to learn to function. Get your priorities straight. (Brian goes to school, mother collapses on couch in a wreck feeling guilty.) ~— -.—-—--‘-» .ur'd ~ . I - How was your day? How's your leg? — Great, no problems. I'm going to the ballfield now. - Maybe you ought to lay down for a while and give your leg a rest. - Mom, would you quit making a big deal about it. I'm OK! Dialogue #4 is particularly successful in creating a voice because Judy, ‘tlle author, uses language, structure and punctuation to give personality tHD the written speech. She uses parenthetical descriptions to facilitate ixientification of her speakers. In addition, she chooses a very 11mmediate and important subject to her: raising a hemophiliac son. Her lNork in this exercise convinced her of how much that experience was typical of her life over the past ten years. She used this dialogue in the beginning of her autobiography that traced her own life from the birth of her hemophiliac son to her return to college ten years later.20 The Eavesdropping Exercise is very similar to the Dialogue Exercise. The major difference in the Eavesdropping Exercise is that 197 tliea .students record conversations of which they are not a part. Neither of the two voices in the dialogue is their own. The purpose of this exercise is to show students the connection between voice and personality, ajaci \Joice, message and style. In addition, students again see how much t11€3 veritten voice operates through textual symbols. Students record a CC>r1\/r1\I€3£rkers, keeps silent. Some of the questions asked about a particular ccDriversation include (1) What are the speaker's attitudes towards the topic being discussed? (2) Describe the relationship between the speakers. (3) Describe the personality behind each voice. (4) Identify the rhythm of the words. What do rhythm and attitude tell you about the speaker's personality? (5) Identify the diction. What does that tell you about their personalities? (6) Compare the way the speakers relate stories and incidents (style of the narrative activity). After these discussions, the tapes for the discussed, transcribed conversations are heard and the same discussion follows, this time with the transcriber; the same questions regarding personality, relationship, language and attitude are addressed. The students then compare the voices heard on the recorder with those in the transcriptions. The transcriber is involved in the discussion at this point in order to ,. p. _. 198 vrexfigfy'the students' conclusions. Since many students learn from the Dialogue Exercise how to produce written dialogue with voice, the eavesdropping transcriptions are often richer in voice than the dialogue txrzlrasscriptions. The transcription below indicates how one student learned the way to transcribe the spoken voice: Dialogue #5 — Troy, Troy Wendell. - Yes sister. - Come here . . . Were you one of the boys that pulled that mean prank on Mr. Tenasiff? - Why no! What prank was that? - Troy, it seems Mr. Tenasiff's car was placed on the school's lawn. — (Trying not to laugh.) No sister I don't know anything about it. - Do you realize that he cannot get the car off the lawn? Somebody, a group, must have picked the car up and put it there. - (Amused) Well Sister Agnes, I don't know what to tell you. I was at baseball practice with the other guys. We were all there. - What would you say if I told you that one of the other boys has told us all about it? - (Sensing the coercion) Sister, I don't know a thing about it. - We'll see. I think we'll call your parents. You've been involved in things like this before. 'TTle transcriber has shaped punctuation and included parenthetical Eitatements to account for the absence of physical sounds and the iliterpersonal gestures of the speakers. Students complete the Dialogue and Eavesdropping Exercises close to the end of the term. By this time, students have had much practice identifying elements of voice and voice properties of discourse. These exercises solidify their maturing voice and their understanding of the function of voice. The knowledge of voice that students bring to the Dialogue and Eavesdropping Exercises results in exciting and animated discussions. Students regard the exercises as a game: Can you identify 199 tliee 13erson behind the voice? These last two exercises leave them contemplating, among other things, a very important element of voice: personality. When the term started, personality was one of the first elements of voice they learned to recognize.21 Interpretive activity and voice activity occur in each unit of tliee Iaroposed course and prepare students for the major writing assign- Ine111; of each unit. The exercises in the two activity sections prepare SlrLlcieents by teaching them about voice, by stimulating and developing tlleéjLir own voice and by providing them with an opportunity to incubate i<1€3£iss their voice will communicate. Their developing voice communicates t}1€355ee ideas to the self and others throughout the pre-writing exercises. WTIEBTI students are satisfied with these ideas and the voice conveying 't}1€3n1, production of the major writing assignment in each unit is possible. The major writing assignments and accompanying workshops are anOther opportunity for students to communicate and test the developing "C¥ice. Following each assignment, students break up into small workshop 551?oups and discuss each other's papers.22 As in the Interpretive AKttivity and VOice Activity sections, the main topic of discussion is t1he voice; students address questions similar to the following: (1) Do you sense a personality behind the voice? (2) Describe that personality. (3) Explore the other elements of voice in the piece. What is the writer's role, persona? What is the writer's attitude towards subject and audience? (4) Why do you think the writer assumes this particular role and attitude? (5) Define the writer's belief system as evident from the paper. ”A” 8.27” 200 (6) Does style-—language and structure--fit the voice you hear? (7) What suggestions would you give the writer to strengthen the voice?2 As students grow accustomed to each other's deveIOping voice, the workshops become more productive, i.e., useful in developing the student's voice and teaching them about voice. Interpretive activity, voice activity and the major writing aSSignment/workshop can contribute to the growth of the student's voice Since the growth of the written voice is the ultimate aim of the Proposed course, an interesting exercise to conclude the term is one in which students describe the voices of their fellow students. By this tiirnee, students have discussed each other's voice during the two-part, Pre—writing stage of each unit and during the small group workshops on ‘t}1€= major writing assignments. To focus the discussion, students break ‘JIJ into their small workshop groups (four or five students) and begin (ieifining the voice of each group member; they try to come to some Cioncensus on this definition. Students perceive the exercise as an (Jpportunity to synthesize everything they have learned. The following list of responses was gathered from one group workshop of beginning Composition: Denise: Voice -- personable, forceful, precise, narrative personality - pleasantly domineering, political and social message (belief system) — political or social style - simple, relaxed, narrates experiences in all assignments Tom: Voice witty, inviting, informative personality - quiet but witty, sometimes cynical message (belief system) - family oriented style - sophisticated, complex, detailed, creative. 201 Jim: Voice -- domineering, intellectual, cocky personality — intellectual, political, cynical opinionated message (belief system) - political or social style - logically detailed, authoritative Vicki: Voice —- pleasant, vibrant personality - effusive, inquisitive, opinionated message (belief system) - political, social style - fast-paced, detailed Afi; tihey work through this exercise, students realize that one element of ‘VC>i_c:e, role or persona, will alter given the conditions of a particular discourse: subject, audience, etc. But the students vehemently SllI>13ch:the group's overall definition of its members' voices. After thi 8 exercise, students often admit that they could not have completed it 1T1 1:he beginning of the term. Deep inside each one of them in the beginning of the term was a voice, but each voice had yet to be discovered and developed. 202 NOTES As in earlier chapters, I use the term reading process to mean tliee EiCt of reading and the interpretation of the text. (All references in tlli.s; chapter will be indicated in the text by title and/or page number.) The course is divided into five units, each culminating in a maj or writing assignment. (See Appendix A) ‘ See Chapter II for a discussion of the elements of voice and tliee \Joice properties of discourse. See John Hawkes, "The Voice Project" (1966-1967) in Writers as JEEEEjEljers/Teachers as Writers, pp. 89-145, See Chapter II, pages 45 to 79, for an explanation of the CC>Ulrnunication process. The Voice Activity section begins with spoken voice exercises §TIC1 Inoves to written voice exercises because of the feasibility of 1<1€31rtifying the spoken voice. Students, unfamiliar with the concept of ‘Vc>i_c:e, can more easily discover voice in spoken than in written discourse. £3 lmovement of exercises from spoken to written helps students identify "C>iJ:e and see the connection between spoken and written discourse. (See Chapter II, pages 45 to 48.) I don't mean to imply that interpretation stops after a specific 1‘i‘l’lgth of time; what stops is the classroom-generated activity involving 13 at interpretation. See Appendix B for a full list of these narratives. The narra- 'tfiives were selected during five years of experimenting with and rejecting many on the basis of poor student response. 9See Betty Shiflett, "Story Workshop," College English (1973) for El discussion of perceptual powers. According to Shifletttperceptual I?owers refer to the writer's ability to use sights, sounds,smells, ‘tastes in writing (p. 153). 10Students read one or two narratives over a three—day period; ‘the instructor encourages students to reread the narratives. 11I gathered the student responses in these exercises from a questionnaire (Appendix C) distributed to one writing class in the Fall of 1979 at Michigan State University. I took the samples of student in- class assignments from the following writing classes: Writing Workshops (Michigan State University), Fall/Winter 1976—1977 and Fall 1979; Short Story and Freshman Composition (Lansing Community College), Spring 1980; American Thought and Language I (Michigan State University), Fall 1981. .. _ -..— I.h .1“ 203 12Each student's interpretation of the narratives is going to affect the results of the written exercises. The class will be in general agreement on the diction and structure of the narratives; but each reader's interpretation of the author's vision is going to vary. Since so much of the text's meaning depends on the cocreative ability of the reader, the class will and should have varying interpretations of the text. 13In the last major writing assignment, autobiography, students explore experiences, persons, places, issues. While the final product in the previous units may diverge from the unit's topic, the final product in the lasttufilzis always an autobiography. There is enough breadth in this assignment to allow the student's voice to take many directions. 14Philip Roth's "Conversion of the Jews" is an appropriate narrative for the Oral Reading Exercise. The narrative features a twelve—year-old boy confused about his religion. Students can readily hear the writer's voice when the narrative is read aloud. Roth's piece is a tender,humorous story that many students who are just beginning to question institutional and familial values find appealing. 15The Oral One-Word Exercise resembles free writing. Ken Macrorie in Telling Writing (New York: Hayden Book Company, 1970) explains that in free writing "You're being asked to move far away from English and all that fearful nervous act of trying to say what the teacher said or what he wants you to say. Speak for yourself here" (p. 14). Free writing, like the One-Word Exercise involves no pressure; students let their minds go and try to honestly discover their imagination. 16Suggested topics: runing, religion, Greek life, dieting, U.S. intervention in third world countries, Gay life, sexual harrassment, single parenthood, ERA. Topics should be kept very current. 17See completed paper in Appendix D. 18James Britton in Language and Learning (1970) discusses the value of voice imitation and the results for one of his students: Looking at her world through Dylan Thomas' spectacles was a way eventually of extending her view of it: as the balance righted itself, she found her own voice again, but richer for the experiment of using his. Trying other people's voices may for the adolescent be a natural and necessary part of the process of finding one's own. (pp. 261-262) (See Vicki's completed paper in Appendix E.) 19The letters exhibiting the least amount of change were those writtentx>company complaint bureaus. The students explained that they were not concerned with the posSibility of alienating an audience they would never meet. Furthermore, many students argued that the angry tone 204 in their company letters was the only means of effecting a response. Their failure to change the letter, then, indicates their awareness of the way the relationship between letter writer and receiver can influence the role or persona chosen. 20 . . . All exerc1ses, even those not directly related to the un1t's topic, provide students with an opportunity to incubate ideas they may use in the major writing assignment. 21Students also learn that dialogue can be a writing tool. At this point in the course, students are preparing for their autobiography; after the Dialogue and Eavesdropping Exercises, many students eagerly insert dialogue throughout their autobiography. Some ambitious students will write the entire autobiography in dialogue. (See Appendix F ) 22Ken Macrorie in Telling Writing (1970) refers to the workshop group as the helping circle. He believes that the helping circle can contribute to the writer's growth: One of the best ways to build [critical] standards is to sit with five to ten persons who discuss each other's writing, which they read aloud. Then the novice critic can judge his responses against those of his companions. In their faces he can see which writing holds or loses them, makes them laugh or smile. In weeks and months of such sessions, he develops bases for judgment, and all the while his own writing stands in his mind, receiving a silent, secret criticism. . . . Then he takes it to a group of other beginning writers and reads it aloud to them. He listens to what they say. He tries to hold their responses in mind without accepting or rejecting them instantly. At home a day later, he reviews the criticism, follows the suggestions he thinks helpful and ignores those he finds invalid. (pp. 65, 67) 23Students can revise their work at any time throughout the course. The only required revision assignment is the autobiography. Since the early assignments are so closely related, what a student cannot accomplish in one assignment can be accomplished in another. For example, if a student is weak on detail in the first major writing assignment, the student can work on that detail for the next assignment, description of a place. Students can also reuse ideas that perhaps did not work in an earlier assignment. Ideas from the experience assignment can easily carry over to the paper or person assignment. Finally, students can use all or parts of earlier major assignments in their autobiography, the last major assignment. Throughout the proposed course, then, students have several opportunities to rework their material. Reworking/refining material is the purpose of revision. CONCLUSION Underlying all that I have written is the conviction that reading fiction can be integral to the composition course. Students can learn about voice and the way their own voice can develop by reading and interpreting fictional narratives. The reading and interpreting of the narratives can provide students with opportunities to witness the voice of a writer and the ways it functions. Through exposure to numerous fictional narratives, students can learn that voice individualizes one piece of discourse from another. Students also can learn the importance of structure and language--voice properties of discourse--in the production of discourse rich in voice. In the process of identifying the writer's voice during interpretation the student's own voice is stimulated and developed. The writer's voice calls upon the reader to respond. The reader's interpretive response involves a self—assessment; the reader uses the voice to communicate to the self and to others this new self awareness. Since reading and interpreting fictional narratives can stimulate and develop the student's voice, the activity can legitimately be part of a composition course. The goal of the proposed course is the development of the student's voice through the student's exposure to the fictional narrative. The Interpretive Activity and Voice Activity sections of the proposed course can aid in achieving this goal. 205 206 The Interpretive Activity section is based on the theory that literary discourse is a speech act, and that the reader is on the receiving end of a conscious attempt to communicate experience and beliefs. In this section, the reader responds to the narrative through various in-class oral and written exercises. During this response, the reader reassesses the self by looking at the relationship of past experiences to those presented in the text. Crucial to this reassess- ment is the student's communication of the knowledge acquired during interpretation. The student reader uses the voice to communicate to the self and to others the new self awareness reached during the process of reading and interpreting the fictional narrative. Because voice is so important to the prOposed course, the Voice Activity section tunes up the voice which has been activated during the Interpretive Activity section. Through a series of oral and written exercises, students use their voice to further incubate ideas stimulated during the interpretive activity section. The Voice Activity section is based on the theory that the writer's discovery of voice is an important step in the writer's growth. Since voice conveys something of the writer's personality, a discourse rich in voice is one that is peculiar to that individual. The Voice Activity section gives students the opportunity to discover their own personalized voice. The Interpretive and Voice Activity sections of the proposed course have served a pre-writing function. I have experimented with the prOposed course in four composition classes; I have arrived at the exercises and strategies presented here as a result of trial and error, and reviewing student responses to the course. Student reaction to the proposed course has been extremely positive. In the four classes on 207 which this study is based, students felt that the fictional narrative voice was an important addition to the many voices they learned to discover around them. By reading fictional narratives, the students learned that the presence of voice signals good writing; discourse should be rich with the writer's personality. Their interpretations of the fictional narratives revealed to them that they had experiences, opinions and a voicethat.could convey both. APPENDICES ,_..._.-‘.E' A‘ _ 5L —-_.a h .E“ f. II. III. IV. 208 APPENDIX A SYLLABUS Weeks One and Two Narrate an Experience (3—5 typed pages) Days 1-3 -- Fiction narrative readings and exercises Days 4-5 -- Oral Reading, One-Word Experience Exercise Day 6 -- General Workshop on major writing assignment Weeks Three and Four Describe a Place (3-5 typed pages) Days 1-3 -- Fiction narrative readings and exercises Days 4-5 -- Place Exercises Days 6 -- Small Group Workshop on major writing assignment Weeks Five and Six Describe a Person (3-5 typed pages) Days 1-3 -- Fiction narrative readings and exercises Days 1-4 -— Person Exercises Day 6 -- Small Group Workshop on major writing assignment Weeks Seven and Eight Philosophy of Life/Issue Paper (3-5 typed pages) Days 1-3 -- Fiction narrative readings and exercises Days 4-5 -- Letter Exercise and Issue Exercise Day 6 -- Small Group Workshop on major writing assignment Weeks Nine through Twelve Autobiography, Parts I and II (7—10 typed pages) Days 1-3 -- Fiction narrative readings and exercises Days 4—5 -- Dialogue Exercises Day 6 -- Small Group Workshop on Part I Days l-2 -- Fiction narrative readings and exercises Days 3-4 -- Eavesdropping Exercises Day 5 -- Small Group Workshop on Part II Day 6 -- Final Voice Exercise 209 Last assignment due during finals week — Revise Autobiography mi... .as. “n h.- 210 APPENDIX B SHORT FICTION NARRATIVES Experience Sherwood Anderson, "I Want to Know Why" "Adventure" "Discovery of a Father" Willa Cather, "Paul's Case" P. Scott Fitzgerald, "Absolution" E.M. Forster, "The Celestial Omnibus” Ernest Hemingway, "The Killers" James Joyce, "Araby" Carson McCullers, "A Tree, A Rock, A Cloud" Katherine Mansfield, "The Garden Party" Frank O'Conner, "First Confession" "Guests of the Nation" Philip Roth, ”Conversion of the Jews” John Steinbeck, "The Chrysanthemums” John Updike, "A G P" Robert Penn Warren, "Blackberry Winter" E.B. White, "The Second Tree from the Corner” Place Elizabeth Bowen, "The Happy Fields" Ray Bradbury, "Nigh Meeting" John Cheever, "The Country Husband" 211 Wulliam Faulkner, "Dry September" Ernest Hemingway, "Soldier's Home" John Updike, ”A a P" Tennessee Williams, "The Field of the Blue Children" Persons Sherwood Anderson, ”Discovery of a Father" "The Egg" James Baldwin's, "Sonny's Blues" Henrich 8811, "Christmas Every Day" Elizabeth Bowen, "The Happy Fields" John Cheever, "The Country Husband" Anton Chekov, "The Lament" Henry James, "Four Meetings" Dave Madden, "No Trace" Katherine Mansfield, ”The Young Girl" Herman Melville, "Bartleby, the Scrivener" Eudora Welty, "A Worn Path" Philosophy of Life/Issue Ilse Aichinger, "The Bound Man" Henrich 3611, "Christmas Every Day" Arna Bontemps, "A Summer Tragedy" Albert Camus, "The Guest" William Faulkner, "Dry September" E.M. Forster, "The Machine Stops" Shirley Jackson, "The Lottery" 212 Franz Kafka, "A Hunger Artist" William Somerset Maugham, "Rain" Carson McCullers, "A Tree, A Rock, A Cloud" Joyce Carol Oates, "How I Contemplated the World from the Detroit House of Correction and Began my Life Over Again" Frank O'Connor, "Guests of the Nation" Philip Roth, "Defender of the Faith" Alan Sillitoe, "The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner" 1 Lionell Trilling, "Of this Time, of that Place" E Autobiography James Baldwin, "This Morning, This Evening, So Soon” F. Scott Fitzgerald, "Winter Dreams" Ernest Hemingway, "Big Two—Hearted River: Parts I and 11" James Joyce, "The Dead" Rudyard Kipling, "Baa, Baa Black Sheep" James McPherson, "Gold Coast” Joyce Carol Oates, "Four Summers" "How I Contemplated the World from the Detroit House of Correction and Began my Life Over Again" Katherine Anne Porter, "The Downward Path to Wisdom" James Thurber, "University Days" Suggested Texts: Fiction 100 Norton Anthology of Short Fiction Please include additional comments. I. a) b) C) II. a) b) C) d) I would like to see more narratives read in the course. Please 213 APPENDIX C STUDENT QUESTIONNAIRE Name I t 1 1 Voice Did you know how to identify voice when the term started? Define voice. Were the narrative readings helpful in understanding voice? If so, Why? Narratives Did you read all the narratives for the class? Yes No If you answered no, why? The following list includes the narratives we read this term. Please refer to the list when responding to the questions below. (list) 1. In which narratives is the voice easily identified? 2. Which narratives stimulated ideas for major writing assign- ments? In what way? 3. Did the narrative readings teach you about voice properties of discourse? For those in which you answered yes, specify the properties. 4. Which narratives helped you to critique the voice in your classmates papers? Was the function of the narratives in the course apparent from the start? Yes No . Please give a reason(s). Check one (or more) of the following: specify choices. 214 I would like to see different narratives read in the course. Please specify which ones you would cancel and for what reason. I would not like to see any narratives read in class. Please specify the reason. e) Was the connection apparent between the narrative(s) and the writing assignment each week? Please answer "yes" or "no" for each narrative and give a reason(s) for your answer. (list) Yes No 111. Interpretive Activity a) Were the class discussions after each narrative helpful? Why or why not? b) Defend your choice of narratives for Written Exercise #1 (switching voice property). What did you learn from the exercise? c) Defend your choice of narratives for Written Exercise #2 (rewriting a portion of a narrative using the voice of another). What did you learn from the exercise? d) Please comment on the order in which you were given the Interpretive Activity exercises. Any suggestions? IV. Voice Activity a) Were the writer's and reader's voices readily identifiable in the Oral Reading Exercise? Why or Why not? b) What do you feel was the function of the One-Word Experience, Person and Place Exercises? Were they successful in helping you incubate ideas? Please comment on each exercise separately. c) What do you feel was the function of the Letter Exercise? What did you learn from the exercise? d) What do you feel was the function of the Issue Exercise? What did you learn from this exercise? Please comment on the usefulness of the sample. e) What did you learn about the spoken and written voice from the Dialogue and Eavesdropping Exercises? f) Please comment on the order in which you were given the Voice Activity exercises. Any suggestions? 215 Final Assessment Do you think you have discovered and developed your voice as a result of the Interpretive Activity? Yes No Voice Activity? Yes No . If you answered "yes" to either part of this question, please check one or more of the following: a) I learned that voice is evident in all forms of discourse. I learned the function of role or persona in the creation of I voice. «:5! I learned the function of structure and language (style) in the creation of voice. I learned the function of the writer's personality and belief systems in the creation of voice. Please record the results of the final Voice Exercise (defining the b) voices of members of your small group workshop). (Note--Students keep a portfolio of their Interpretive Activity and Voice Activity exercises and their major writing assignments; this port- folio also includes comments (theirs and theirs peers) on the writing material. This portfolio is useful in completing the questionaire.) 216 APPENDIX D SEX IS PASSE (Student Paper) Simplicity is the earmark of both common sense and the finest creative thought. Philosophers and plain folks alike recognize that the simplest solutions to any problem is the best solution. As a citizen and an intellectual, I feel a duty to help solve society's problems. This spring, one problem in particular has become so pervasive that I have taken it upon myself to find an answer. After devoting many hours of study and reflection to the problem, I feel, with modest pride, that I have hit on an insightful formulation of the problem, and a simple, direct solution. This solution comes just in time, for the problem is a serious one. It is more time-consuming than any term paper, faster growing than grade inflation, more worrisome than any career decision. I am referring, as you may have already surmised, to the problem of our endless preoccupation with obtaining sexual fulfillment. This problem can be seen everywhere. Since we are in a university situation, let me draw my examples from M.S.U. In the classroom, the students cannot concentrate. At the beginning of the period, the students resolve to put on an expression of reserve and mild intellectual interest. But before the period is half over, self-control visibly deteriorates. People's eyes begin to wander, and the atmosphere of the classroom thickens. Even the professor, when he turns from the blackboard, can be observed 217 to have slightly bulging eyes. By the time the class is over, a hefty portion of the class has lost any vestige of academic detachment; the only reason their tongues are not hanging out is a tightly clamped jaw. And when the students leave the class, their problems multiply. A student stays cooped up in his (or her) room until the heat becomes unbearable. He goes outside to cool off, but encounters there the tanned, scantily clad bodies of his fellow students, which serve only to raise his temperature more. If the student goes back to the dorm or apartment, there is still no escape. The television commercials all try to sell products by titillating the viewer with lurid fantasies: "If you buy our mouthwash (perfume, razor blades, shampoo, catfood, whatever) this and this and this will happen to ygg_. . . " Gossiping friends are no distraction from the subject; their conversation seems to exist entirely of who did what to whom, or wanted to do what to whom, or frantically tried to do what to whom. If the student retreats to the library, the proximity of warm young bodies serves to dangle temptation in his or her face; and even in the secluded areas of the library, tasteless, stimulating graffiti dogs the student with sex, sex, sex. The only places left to go are the crowded bars and restaurants, where the spectacle of other students oggling each other desperately is scarcely uplifting. Most students, unaware that there is a sure-fire and simple way out of these difficulties, try to solve the problem of sexual preoccupation by going on dates--a pathetic error, that, like struggling when trapped in quicksand, only makes matters worse. A typical student couple on a date, though laboring to have fun, are obsessed by doubts and fears 218 concerning sex. She is wondering: "What if he doesn't ask me?" He irswondering; "What will she say if I ask her?" And, with more anxiety: "What will my friends say if I don't ask her?" If they manage to overcome these distractions and resolve to have sex, they have worse problems. They both pray that the other has had a lot of experience (so that he or she will be capable), and they are both hoping that the other has ngt_ had a lot of experience (so that he or she will be uncritical.) If lust overrides these and other doubts, and they actually accomplish something, there is no respite for anxiety. If she is old-fashioned, she wonders: ”Does he still respect me?" If she is modern—minded, she wonders: "Is he getting dependent on me?” He, meanwhile, is wondering: "What kind of obligation have I gotten myself into?" and "Did I waste my $2.95 on the Hite Report, or what?" And they both can stare at the ceiling pondering questions like "Was I good enough?" "Was it_good enough?" ”What would Mom/Dad/Sister/Roommate/Fami1y Dog say?" "Why does a part of me persist in thinking sex is icky?" "Is one enough? Is three too many?" And so on ad nauseum. One way out of this uncertainty is to form a relationship. Unfortunately, this immediately entangles hapless individuals in all kinds of difficulties. Summer break, career goals, and graduation threaten ongoing relationships, as does the temptation of 48,000 panting young peOple flaunting themselves in the immediate vicinity. Pursuing other relationships fosters jealousy; renouncing other relationships fosters resentment. The burgeoning divorce rate shows us that marriage is an unreliable cement for relationships, even if the couple is willing to get married. Worse, statistics show that even people who stay married 219 are plagued with increasing dissatisfaction, infidelity, sexual failure, and general round-the-clock wretchedness. The facts stare us in the face: the more you try to satisfy sexual cravings, the more miserable you become. The only solution, as I see it, is for students and other regular people to give up sexual behavior entirely. Sex for regular people is rapidly becoming passe? sex should be left to the professionals, who are much better paid and much better qualified. Although this idea seems a little extreme on the face of it, it has numerous advantages. And, if you care to look, you can see that it daily is gaining adherents; sex by professionals alone is the wave of the future. Professional sex objects--actors, actresses, models, and the like-- have none of the weaknesses and doubts that torment regular people. They are uniformly healthy and attractive, and they bloom with self- confidence. Unlike you and me, they have script-writers who ensure that they are always successful. The romantic music comes in at just the right time; they never misplace essential birth control paraphanalia at a crucial moment; they are never troubled by obnoxious suite-mates who, a thin wall away, applaud when they are done. In a word, they are free, free of the responsibilities and galling imperfections that sex, for regular non-fictional people, always entails. Now, one might wonder if the cost of giving up these problems is to give up sexual gratification--but this is not at all necessary. There is a splendid alternative to real sex: easy, painless, hassle-free vicarious sex. Movies, novels, T.V. shows, girlie and guyie magazines, and all the other media that represent professional sex objects is a limitless source of this vaciarous satisfaction. And, as millions of 220 people already know, this is a perfect source for a wonderful sex life. With vicarious sex, there is no worrying about clinging dependency, no struggling to be adequate, no lonely hours spent searching for a partner, no inhibiting commitment, no sticky aftermath, no huddled masses yearning to be free. The soonertfluerest of us join the millions already having vicarious sex as a substitute for real sex, the sooner we will be free, comfortable, and satisfied. True, procreation will be inhibited. But the birth rate in this country is declining any way. This is sensible, because the under- developed countries are having enough children for the whole world. But if people turn out to really miss having children, technology will soon be advanced enough so that sex will not be necessary for reproduc- tion. Probably the task would be taken over by a large corporation-- General Motors, or maybe Burger King--and the production would be a lot more efficient than our current cottage-industry techniques. Moreover, the product, being more standardized, would doubtless fit into modern society better. I suppose a small minority of backward individuals will resist my proposal. I was talking to my friend Neil last night, who had the temerity to argue that the advantages of actual sex made up for the disadvantages. I told him that his kind belonged with outmoded species in the lower left-hand corner of the evolution charts. He replied that they would be perfectly content, as long as it was a dark corner. Ha ha ha. This heavy—handed humor served only to add weight to my argument, but Neil refused to be quenched. He said that taking sex too seriously was part of the problem--clearly an anti-intellectual prejudice. He 221 tried to turn back the hands of time, suggesting that vicarious sex should be resisted. He even wanted to blame it for part of the problem, accusing it of making peOple feel inadequate. He went on to suggest that, since practice makes perfect, the real solution to our problems is to vigorously pursue sex. He pledged himself to start that very day. This is certainly a reactionary position. Yet, some impulse-- no doubt, scientific objectivity—-moves me to consider giving his method a trial. I am only taking a few classes this summer, and I was looking for an extra project anyway. So, just to be fair, I have decided to dedicate my summer to trying out Neil's approach. If you would like to know the results of my research, feel free to look me up this fall. Or, if you don't have anything to do this summer . 222 APPENDIX E THE TRIALS OF SHORT PEOPLE (Student Paper) Handicappers, Blacks, Mexicans, women or any other minority group continuously complain about being discriminated against and rightfully so. I believe one of the biggest minority groups being discriminated against, whom you seldom hear about, is short people. They do not demonstrate for their rights or advertise their plight. They just passively face the consequences of being short. It seems short people have just grown accustomed to the fact that they will never be able to sit in a chair like "normal" -people. Chair seats are always too high to have their feet flat on the floor. If they can touch the floor at all, it is usually just with the tips of their toes, which does not make sitting for long periods of time very comfortable. If they happen to be sitting at a table, it is twice as awkward because the surface of the table is almost level with their necks. Most people do not find grocery shopping a strenuous task. They probably don't even consider all the obstacles that prevent short pe0ple from enjoying shopping. Anything above the fourth shelf is almost unaccessable. Short people are forced to perform acrobats [sic] while in the store by jumping up and trying to knock a box off the fifth shelf in hopes of catching it when it drops. When glass objects are on the 223 higher shelves, short people are out of luck if they can't find a friendly person to get it down for them. I have learned from experience that it is not healthy to climb up on the shelves no matter how badly an item is needed. In the past few years more and more bathrooms have been built to accommodate handicapped pe0ple in wheelchairs. Why can't they make toilets a little lower to accommodate short people? Most peOple would not believe how uncomfortable and awkward it is for short peOple to relieve themselves on some toilets. I am sure I do not have to go into detail. Most people don't look forward to going to the dentist for obvious reasons such as the pain involved or the amount of money it will cost. Short people detest going to the dentist because it is such a challenge trying to get all the way up into the chair. It always amazes me how casually the dentist will say, "Just have a seat, and I will be right with you." "Jgst have a seat!" Who is he trying to fool anyway. Most people can just walk over and gracefully boost themselves into the chair, but not short people. We have to stand against the opposite wall and get a running start to be able to leap into the chair. Most people consider driving a car a leisure activity, but for short people it is almost strenuous. The seat never goes forward far enough to comfortably reach the gas pedal. Just be thankful for bucket seats, otherwise tall passengers would have to suffer the consequences of riding with their knees under their chin. Simple tasks such as changing a lightbulb can even be dangerous for a short person. Most people can usually reach a light fixture while 224 standing flat on the floor, or they may have to use a chair if it is an unusually high ceiling. Short people not only have to drag a chair over to stand on, but a stool as well to put on top of the chair. This tends to get a bit tricky. Short people are almost always discriminated against in sports such as basketball and volleyball. What recruiters do not realize is that a short person could be an asset to a basketball team. Because they dribble the ball so close to the ground, it makes it harder for the taller players to steal. In volleyball, short people can get to the ground quicker to return spiked balls that often get by the taller players. When short people attempt to buy clothes, it is a joke. Every- thing is always too long, and by the time it is shortened, the style could be ruined. There is a benefit to this, though. By the time a woman cuts the extra two feet off the bottom of her dress, she has enough left over to make a matching skirt. There is always enough material left over from blue jeans too for patches. What most taller people do not realize is that when they are walking with a short person, they need to slow down. It is not uncommon to see tall persons striding along with a short person running beside them. If short persons do not look like they can follow very well while dancing, it probably is not because they are a lousy dancer, but because the other person's steps are too big. It only takes a second to notice the length of someone's legs. If they seem a little short, slow down and take smaller steps, it will be greatly appreciated. 225 Restaurants are an absolute health hazard to short people. Those two-way swinging doors with the little window at the top are designed for tall people only. The windows are too high for short people to look through and they cannot be seen from the other side either. I do not think it is too unreasonable to ask people who design homes to keep short people in mind. It has become second nature for short people to jump up on the counter to get things off the t0p shelves in the kitchen but it is still an inconvenience. Even opening and closing drapes is an effort for short people. They have to drag a chair all the way from the kitchen just to reach the cord. I know of several people who will never experience the pleasure of closing a garage door. There is no reason why these things cannot be lowered just a little to accommodate more people. Being short is not all bad and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Society could help a lot, though, by taking short pe0ple into considera- tion once in a while. Just lowering things a few inches can make a lot of difference. Things that tall people take for granted such as reading the books from the top shelves in the library, short people may never experience if something is not done soon. 226 APPENDIX E MY LIFE--A FIRST HAND STORY (Student Paper) "Excuse me! Are you okay? You must pardon my bumping you. You see, I'm drowsy because Kathy neglects me and frankly, I'm bored. I'm gnly_her left hand. But then, being a right hand and not belonging to Kathy, you obviously don't know how it feels to be forgotten." ”Huh? Forgotten? Un--no, I guess I don't." "I swear that Kathy Olson just doesn't care what happens to me. Here I sit in her lecture, practically falling asleep because she's not using me. I'm not as young as I once was, you know. You've got to give me a little exercise now and then. But try to tell her that. Of course, I shouldn't complain now that she's resting me. She's been wearing me out for over eighteen years. And when you're a hand, that's pretty darned old! Eighteen years I've worked for her. I've given that girl the best years of my life-~and look at me! Scarred, dried, scaley, and shriveled! I suppose I should give her a pat on the back--I mean she dge§_put hand lotion on me about twice a month, or whenever she thinks of it!" "What? Scarred and scaley, you say. Heh--you really do look like you've gone through some pretty rough times. What's that girl's name again? Kathy? You really are messed up!" 227 "Messed up? Ahem. Well, uh, yes I am. Actually, it all started when I was very young. I really don't remember much of my baby life. There were, of course, the usual thumb-sucking, rattle-strangling, and crib-banging. But you expect that, right?" "Did you say something?" "Crib-banging and thumb-sucking, I said. I'm sure you had those problems!" ”Huh? Oh yeah, crib-banging. Did you say you got scarred and dried from that?" "On no. When I was three or four, that kid thought she should have been a boy so naturally Ilm_the one who suffered. I used to live in the sandbox. Not that I have anything against sand, mind you. But wet sand? Forget it! I used to bake for hours in that summer heat while Miss Tomboy nearly wore my skin away packing mudpies. Naturally, the more she slapped me against that dirty stuff the more the sand hardened on me. I am the last one to be vain, but really, that filthy dirt marred my youthful appearance. (Sigh!) Then came the cars and trucks stage. I dug for hours in the dirt and built nothing bug roards, tunnels, and overpasses. My fingernails and palms got so caked with dirt she used to clench me and hide me behind her back so her mother wouldn't yell at her. She nearly cut off my oxygen supply a couple of times--I could have suffocated! She just has no consideration for me! Hey are you listening?" "Yeah--no consideration." "That's right! None! I used to get so dizzy, I would just spin for hours on end." "From being clenched?" 228 "Oh no, when I was five I used to go to North Hill Elementary School for a half-day. I really moved in the world. Ha! I got dizzy from making those asinine rings through red and yellow colors. I believe the art is called fingerpainting. Every Friday afternoon I used to have to grind myself to the bone racing through those paints. I think if I were human I would have severe migraine headaches. She pressed me so darned hard that those colors wore into the prints of my fingers! And that putrid-smelling soap the teacher slapped on me afterwards—-Yuk, I'm repulsed just thinking about it." "Hey, but things must have gotten better. Kids usually grow out of the fingerpainting stage fast." "Oh yes! Besides, kindergarten only lasted for a half day, weekends off too. But Kathy still stayed a tomboy. That child loved sports. In the winter, some hills nearby froze so naturally our heroine trudged over to skate. I didn't mind--after all. I was snug inside a pair of warm mittens. Ah, I remember them well. They even had a string running from mitten through jacket to mitten! Naturally, that darned Kathy neglected me, and a mitten always fell off. But it wasn't lost. At least her mother thought of me! I must admit I felt pretty secure. How was I supposed to know that horrible dog was going to be there? He had the nerve to grab my mitten right off me! Naturally when that wretched animal took off with the mitten, he took everybody with him--Kathy, the string running through her jacket, the other mitten, and most importantly, ME! I get goose bumps just thinking about it. That mutt must have dragged me across the ice forever. Brrr! All that crashing across the bumpy surface. I could have died of frostbite! That's 229 a very traumatic experience for a five-year-old hand, you know. I_§ay_ on "I heard you! But really, come off it. You can't blame Kathy for what heppened. I mean, it wasn't h§£_fault." "No, but what happened when she graduated from kindergarten certainly was! When Kathy started first grade at St. Andrew School, I started really getting abused. She was a teacher's little helper. You know what that means! For hours I stayed after school folding paper, tracing, cutting, and God knows what else. You know, making bulletin boards. I dug for straight pins to hang my creations so long I lost almost all my feeling in my fingers. I wouldn't have minded so much if I could have just washed up and gone home afterwards. But it never failed! Those Sisters always plastered a bright red, gold, or silver star on me "in gratitude" for my work. Some gratitude! I'll admit those shiny stars were attractive. But that stick-um glue was enough to wear away my soft skin and rip off my fine hairs! No wonder I'm practically bald now! Of course, I really can't complain as much as my partner can." "You're sure doing a good enough job of it!" "Did you say something?" "Huh, me? Nah, you must be hearing things." ”Hearing things, indeed. Anyway, as I was saying, Kathy really wrecked her right hand. She used to pinch her pencil so darned hard. Well-~look--you can still see the callous she's made on her third finger. I said, you can still see the callous on her finger!" "Hmmm? Oh yeah, some callous. Hey, I really think her right hand has gotten it worse than you." 230 "Why I never! How can you say such a thing! I should have known I couldn't get much sympathy from you-—a right hand. I suppose you never played the piano--of course not! You don't look frazzled enough. Well, let me tell you. Kathy's piano teacher always thought I was a little slower. How she could think such a thing is beyond me! Anyways, the teacher told her to drill each hand separately. Of course my partner picked up the music faster than I did. That other hand got to play the melody. I was stuck with playing chords and dancing all over the keyboard. For five years I wore myself out. And what did I learn? Only how to get exhausted. And Kathy's parents paid_for that! It really didn't make much sense to me. But then, neither did those other lessons." "Huh? Are you still complaining about the piano lessons?" "Oh no. I was talking about those darned swimming lessons I had to take. I was only seven years old. What did her instructor expect? An Olympic swimmer? Not that I didn't like water--I loved to splash around. But really, the dead man's float and the dog paddle! No wonder I couldn't pass the beginner requirements. It wasn't worth it. I must have laid out in the sun for hours--and that chlorine didn't help any either! Needless to say, I looked like five long prunes. That's how I became shriveled. Even now when I take a bath, I get shriveled very fast. I don't know--I_think it's those swimming lessons that are to blame!" "What?” "Hey, I'm not bothering you, am I?" ”Well . . ." 231 "Oh good! I was just saying how those swimming lessons caused me to dry and shrivel." "Swimming lessons, you say? Then that's really not Kathy's fault either. If you ask me, I think you're using her as a scapegoat." "Oh no I'm not. She knew darned well she could h ve just said, 'No, I don't want to learn how to swim.' Her parents gave her a choice. But do you think she did? Well, do you?" "Uh, no--guess not." "You bet your cuticles she didn't. And that's another thing-- cuticles. When I was about nine, she developed the terrible habit of nail —biting. She was such a little worry wart. So again, I_suffered. It wouldn't have been so bad if she just bit my nails. Those can always grow back fast. But she always had to do those things big! She not only chewed my nails. She nibbled at the skin around the nails. Ugh--such ugly hangnails. And then do you think she could just leave me alone? Heaven forbid. Pick, pick, pick! That's all she did! My fingers got §g_infected a few times. She practically burned me to death with that orange liquid junk and then she slapped bandaids all over me. It felt good for awhile. But, as usual, Kathy soon forgot about me. The bandaids got old and they ripped and shriveled me." "Hey, do you mind if I ask youzipersonal question?" "What?" "If you and Kathy get along so terribly--I mean if she's never considerate of you--well, how have you two lived together for as long as you have?" "Hah, hah, hah. What a question! I guess--hah--you could say we've become kind of attached. Hah, hah." 232 "No really. I mean if you wanted, you could just act paralyzed or something. You know, stop working." "Stop working? On Kathy? Hey, listen, we're two of a kind. We have to stick together. Even if she does tend to complain sometimes just for the sake of complaining. You know, talk only to hear her voice. Now when I_complain about something, I really 'constructively criticize' it." ”Oh yeah--I can see you've been doing that all along." "You're darned right. Really, the idea of quitting on Kathy is too preposterous. Now where was 1? Ah yes, the nail-biting stage. Fourth grade. Ugh--that was the year she decided to turn into Susie Girlscout. Can't say I loved building trailmarkers with stones. Kind of went back into the dirt, shovel, and digging days, you know? Then came the artist badge. Were you ever a girlscout? Oh no, suppose you weren't. Well, she couldn't just paint and sketch. She made block- prints. 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