Ready for another example? How about “Rip Van Winkle”? I’m sure you have doubts. Tell me what you remember.
Okay. Rip Van Winkle, who’s lazy and not a great provider for his family, goes hunting. Actually, he’s really just getting away from his nagging wife. He meets some odd characters playing ninepins, with whom he drinks a little bit and falls asleep. When he wakes up his dog is gone and his gun has rusted and fallen apart. He has white hair and a beard a mile long and very stiff joints. He makes his way back to town and finds out he’s been asleep for twenty years and his wife is dead and everything has changed, including the signs at the hotel. And that’s pretty much the story.
Pretty much. Nothing very political in that, right? Except that we need to consider two questions:
1) What does it mean that Dame Van Winkle is dead?
2) How does that connect with the change of Georges on the hotel sign?
During the twenty years he’s been away, the American Revolution has happened, the picture of British King George has been transformed by the proprietors into that of our George (Washington), although with the same face. There’s a liberty cap atop the flagpole, which carries a new flag, and the tyrant (Dame Van Winkle) is dead. Rip nearly gets attacked when he says he’s loyal to the old George, but once that gets straightened out, he finds out he’s free and he likes it.
p. 114 So everything’s better?
Definitely not. Irving is writing in 1819 and is observant enough to know that liberty brought with it some problems. Things have become a little run-down. The hotel has some broken windows and needs a face-lift, and the town and its people are generally a little more ragged than they were before the war. But there’s a kind of energy that drives them, a certainty that their lives are their own and nobody by golly is going to boss them around. They speak their minds and do what they want. And tyranny and absolute rule are dead. In other words, this slightly scruffy assemblage of people is on the way to defining for itself what it means to be American and free. So not everything is better, but the things that really matter—freedom, self-determination—they are better.
How can I be so sure that Irving means to imply all that? Part of his protective coloration is as this rather naive, rustic spinner of tales, but that’s not him; it’s pure disguise. Washington Irving was a man of great sophistication who studied law, was admitted to the bar, served in Spain as a diplomat, wrote histories as well as fiction, traveled widely. Does that sound like a man who didn’t understand what his narrative signified? His ostensible narrator, Diedrich Knickerbocker, is a jolly companion who spins out these tales of his Dutch ancestors without seeing all the implications. Irving saw them, though. He knew, moreover, that with Rip and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” (1819) he was creating an American consciousness in literature, a thing that hadn’t existed prior to his time. Like Poe, he sets himself up in opposition to European literary tradition, offering instead a body of work that could only come from an American and that features and celebrates freedom from its former colonial power.
So is every literary work political?
I can’t go that far. Some of my more political colleagues may tell you yes, that every work is either part of the social p. 115 problem or part of the solution (they’ll give it to you with rather more subtlety than that, but that’s the gist). I do think, though, that most works must engage with their own specific period in ways that can be called political. Let’s say this: writers tend to be men and women who are interested in the world around them. That world contains many things, and on the level of society, part of what it contains is the political reality of the time—power structures, relations among classes, issues of justice and rights, interactions between the sexes and among various racial and ethnic constituencies. That’s why political and social considerations often find their way onto the page in some guise, even when the result doesn’t look terribly “political.”
An example. When Sophocles is a very old man, he finally writes the middle third of his Theban trilogy of plays, Oedipus at Colonus (406 B.C.), in which the old and frail Oedipus arrives at Colonus and receives the protection of the Athenian king, Theseus. Theseus is everything we might want in a ruler: strong, wise, gentle, tough when necessary, determined, cool-headed, compassionate, loyal, honest. Theseus protects Oedipus from potential harm and guides him to the sacred spot where the old man is fated to die. Is that political? I think so. You see, Sophocles is writing this not only at the end of his life but at the end of the fifth century B.C., which is to say at the end of the period of Athenian greatness. The city-state is threatened from the outside by Spartan aggression and from the inside by leaders who, whatever their virtues, sure aren’t Theseus. What he’s saying is, in effect, we could really use a leader like Theseus again; maybe he could get us out of this mess and keep Athens from total ruin. Then outsiders (Creon in the play, the Spartans in reality) wouldn’t be trying to overrun us. Then we’d still be strong and just and wise. Does Sophocles actually say any of these things? No, of course not. He’s old, not senile. You say these things openly, they give you hemlock or something. He p. 116 doesn’t have to say them, though; everyone who sees the play can draw his own conclusions: look at Theseus, look at whatever leader you have near to hand, look at Theseus again—hmmm (or words to that effect). See? Political.
All this matters. Knowing a little something about the social and political milieu out of which a writer creates can only help us understand her work, not because that milieu controls her thinking but because that is the world she engages when she sits down to write. When Virginia Woolf writes about women of her time only being permitted a certain range of activities, we do her and ourselves a great disservice by not seeing the social criticism involved. For instance, in Mrs. Dalloway (1925), Lady Bruton invites Richard Dalloway, a member of Parliament, and Hugh Whitbread, who has a position at court, to luncheon. Her purpose is to dictate to them material she wants to see introduced into legislation and sent as a letter to the Times, all the while protesting that she’s merely a woman who doesn’t understand these matters as a man would. What Woolf shows us is a very capable, if not entirely lovable, woman using the fairly limited Richard and the completely doltish Hugh to make her point in a society which would not take the point seriously if it was seen as coming directly from her. In the years after the Great War, the scene reminds us, ideas were judged on the basis of the class and gender of the person putting them forward. Woolf handles all of this so subtly that we may not think of it as political, but it is.
It always—or almost always—is.
14 – Yes, She’s a Christ Figure, Too
p. 117 THIS MAY SURPRISE SOME OF YOU, but we live in a Christian culture. What I mean is that since the preponderance of cultural influences has come down to us from European early settlers, and since those early settlers inflicted their values on the “benighted” cultures they encountered (“benighted,” from the Old English, meaning “anyone darker than myself”), those inflicted values have gained ascendancy. This is not to say that all citizens of this great republic are Christians, any more than that they are all great republicans. I once heard a well-known Jewish professor of composition speak about walking into her very first final examination in college only to be confronted with this question: “discuss the Christian imagery in Billy p. 118 Budd.” It simply never occurred to her professor back in the 1950s that Christian imagery might be alien territory for some students.
Institutions of higher learning can no longer blithely assume that everyone in class is a Christian, and if they do, it’s at their own risk. Still, no matter what your religious beliefs, to get the most out of your reading of European and American literatures, knowing something about the Old and New Testaments is essential. Similarly, if you undertake to read literature from an Islamic or a Buddhist or a Hindu culture, you’re going to need knowledge of other religious traditions. Culture is so influenced by its dominant religious systems that whether a writer adheres to the beliefs or
not, the values and principles of those religions will inevitably inform the literary work. Often those values will not be religious in nature but may show themselves in connection with the individual’s role within society, or humankind’s relation to nature, or the involvement of women in public life, although, as we have seen, just as often religion shows up in the form of allusions and analogues. When I read an Indian novel, for example, I’m often aware, if only dimly, of how much I’m missing due to my ignorance of the various religious traditions of the subcontinent. Since I’d like to get more out of my reading, I’ve worked to reduce that ignorance, but I still have a way to go.
Okay, so not everyone is a Christian around these parts, nor do those who would say they are necessarily have more than a nodding familiarity with the New Testament, aside from John 3:16, which is always beside the goalposts at football games. But in all probability they do know one thing: they know why it’s called Christianity. Okay, so it’s not the most profound insight ever, but it matters. A lot. Northrop Frye, one of the great literary critics, said in the 1950s that biblical typology—the comparative study of types between the Old p. 119 and New Testaments and, by extension, out into literature—was a dead language, and things haven’t improved since then. While we may not be all that well versed in types and archetypes from the Bible, we generally recognize, whatever our religious affiliation, some of the features that make Christ who he is.
Whether you do or not, this list may be helpful:
1) crucified, wounds in the hands, feet, side, and head
2) in agony
3) self-sacrificing
4) good with children
5) good with loaves, fishes, water, wine
6) thirty-three years of age when last seen
7) employed as carpenter
8) known to use humble modes of transportation, feet or donkeys preferred
9) believed to have walked on water
10) often portrayed with arms outstretched
11) known to have spent time alone in the wilderness
12) believed to have had a confrontation with the devil, possibly tempted
13) last seen in the company of thieves
14) creator of many aphorisms and parables
15) buried, but arose on the third day
p. 120 16) had disciples, twelve at first, although not all equally devoted
17) very forgiving
18) came to redeem an unworthy world
You may not subscribe to this list, may find it too glib, but if you want to read like a literature professor, you need to put aside your belief system, at least for the period during which you read, so you can see what the writer is trying to say. As you’re reading that story or poem, religious knowledge is helpful, although religious belief, if too tightly held, can be a problem. We want to be able to identify features in stories and see how they are being used; in other words, we want to be analytical.
Say we’re reading a book, a novel. Short novel, say. And let’s say this short novel has a man in it, a man no longer young, in fact old, as well as very poor and engaged in a humble profession. Not carpentry, say, but fishing. Jesus had some dealings with fishermen, too, and is often connected symbolically with fish, so that’s a point of similarity. And the old fisherman hasn’t had much good luck for a long time, so no one believes in him. In general there’s a lot of doubt and nonbelief in our story. But one young boy believes in him; sadly, though, the boy isn’t allowed to accompany the fisherman anymore, because everyone, the boy’s parents included, think the old man is bad luck. There’s a second point of similarity: he’s good with children. Or at least one child. And he has one disciple. And this old man is very good and pure, so that’s another point. Because the world he lives in is rather sullied and unworthy, fallen even.
During his solitary fishing trip, the old man hooks into a big fish that takes him far out beyond his known limits, to where the sea becomes a wilderness. He’s all alone, and he’s put through great physical suffering, during which even he begins to p. 121 doubt himself. His hands are ripped up by the struggle, he thinks he’s broken something in his side. But he bucks himself up with aphorisms like “A man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated”—inspiring things like that. Somehow he can endure this whole episode, which lasts three days and which finally makes it seem to those on land that he’s dead. His great fish is ruined by sharks, but he manages to drag this huge ruined skeleton back to port. His return is like a resurrection. He has to walk up a hill from the water to his shack, and he carries his mast, which looks like a man carrying a cross from a certain point of view. Then he lies on his bed, exhausted by his struggles, his arms thrown out in the position of crucifixion, showing his damaged, raw hands. And the next morning, when people see the great fish, even the doubters begin to believe in him again. He brings a kind of hope, a kind of redemption, to this fallen world, and . . . yes?
Didn’t Hemingway write a book like that?
Yes, The Old Man and the Sea (1952), a nearly perfect literary parable, so clear, with symbols so available, that the Christian imagery is accessible to even beginning readers. But let’s give old Hemingway some credit here; the narrative is more subtle than I’ve just made it sound. And the struggle is so vivid and concrete that one can get a lot out of it—triumph over adversity, the value of hope and faith, the attainment of grace—without placing undue weight on the old man, Santiago, as a Christ figure.
So must all Christ figures be as unambiguous as this? No, they don’t have to hit all the marks. Don’t have to be male. Don’t have to be Christian. Don’t even have to be good. (See the stories of Flannery O’Connor for example after example.) There, however, we’re starting to get into irony, and that’s a whole different area where I don’t want to go just yet. Yet. But if a character is a certain age, exhibits certain behaviors, prop. 122vides for certain outcomes, or suffers in certain ways, your literary antennae should begin to twitch. How should we know, though? Here’s a handy list, not all-inclusive, but a start:
YOU MIGHT BE A CHRIST FIGURE IF YOU ARE . . .
(CHECK ANY THAT APPLY):
___thirty-three years old
___unmarried, preferably celibate
___wounded or marked in the hands, feet, or side (crown of thorns extra credit)
___sacrificing yourself in some way for others (your life is best, and your sacrifice doesn’t have to be willing)
___in some sort of wilderness, tempted there, accosted by the devil
Oh, you get the point. Consult previous list.
Are there things you don’t have to do? Certainly. Consider Santiago again. Wait, you say, shouldn’t he be thirty-three? And the answer is, sometimes that’s good. But a Christ figure doesn’t need to resemble Christ in every way; otherwise he wouldn’t be a Christ figure, he’d be, well, Christ. The literal elements—changing water into wine, unless in some clumsy way such as pouring out someone’s water and filling his glass with wine; stretching loaves and fishes to feed five thousand; preaching (although some do); suffering actual crucifixion; literally following in his footsteps—aren’t really required. It’s the symbolic level we’re interested in.
Which brings us to another issue we’ve touched upon in other chapters. Fiction and poetry and drama are not necessarily playgrounds for the overly literal. Many times I’ll point out p. 123 that a character is Christlike because he does X and Y, and you might come back with, “But Christ did A and Z and his X wasn’t like that, and besides, this character listens to AC/DC.” Okay, so the heavy-metal sound isn’t in the hymnal. And this character would be very hard pressed to take over Savior duty. No literary Christ figure can ever be as pure, as perfect, as divine as Jesus Christ. Here as elsewhere, one does well to remember that writing literature is an exercise of the imagination. And so is reading it. We have to bring our imaginations to bear on a story if we are to see all its possibilities; otherwise it’s just about somebody who did something. Whatever we take away fr
om stories in the way of significance, symbolism, theme, meaning, pretty much anything except character and plot, we discover because our imagination engages with that of the author. Pretty amazing when you consider that the author may have been dead for a thousand years, yet we can still have this kind of exchange, this dialogue, with her. At the same time, this doesn’t indicate the story can mean anything we want it to, since that would be a case of our imagination not bothering with that of the author and just inventing whatever it wants to see in the text. That’s not reading, that’s writing. But that’s another matter, and one we’ll discuss elsewhere.
On the flip side, if someone in class asks if it’s possible that the character under discussion might be a Christ figure, citing three or four similarities, I’ll say something like, “Works for me.” The bottom line, I usually tell the class, is that Christ figures are where you find them, and as you find them. If the indicators are there, then there is some basis for drawing the conclusion.
Why, you might ask, are there Christ figures? As with most other cases we’ve looked at where the work engages some prior text, the short answer is that probably the writer wants to make a certain point. Perhaps the parallel deepens our sense of the character’s sacrifice if we see it as somehow similar to the p. 124 greatest sacrifice we know of. Maybe it has to do with redemption, or hope, or miracle. Or maybe it is all being treated ironically, to make the character look smaller rather than greater. But count on it, the writer is up to something. How do we know what he’s up to? That’s another job for imagination.
How to Read Literature Like a Professor Page 12