Yes, the end is in the end. Not the beginning, as the saying often goes. For when a semester of coursework ends, one does indeed reflect back on the beginning, but with a different set of eyes, eyes that have learned much and have a greater appreciation for what it sees again anew.
And that's enough with the cliches and purple prose, no? It was hard to pick three articles only to discuss here--I learned much from the searches I did every week, to be sure. But, to show I can follow directions, I did pick just three articles, and here they are, in summation and analysis:
1. "Reading." Farmer's Weekly Museum, 19 October 1805. This article is against novel-reading--it deems it a "sore malady"--but is not against reading because of the depravity it may bring to the female mind. In fact, the article asserts that "'tis foul slander to assert that the female mind is thus debased. . . . In the rolls of antiquity the name of Sappho, and in modern times a long catalogue of illustrious female writers completely refutes a notion entertained by many of inferiority." The article goes on to say that, as soon as women get the same educational rights as men, everyone will see that they, too, are capable of great genius and taste. I appreciated the proto-feminist slant to this article, especially as it ran in a paper that, according to founder/editor Joseph Tinker Buckingham's Specimen's of Newspaper Literature (1852), had no rival as a literary periodical during its run. Indeed, the Farmer's Weekly had a circulation that spanned from Main to Georgia and was the leading Federalist paper in the 1790s, though it remained influential until it was stopped in 1810.
2. "On Female Education." Philadelphia Album and Ladies Literary Gazette, 6 June 1827. I appreciate the strong rhetorical argument the writer makes--that we cannot and should not settle for some of the small improvements that have been made in female education, as America is a forward-moving, not a stationary, country. Were we stationary, "a republic would have had scarcely any other existence than in the pages of the Utopia." Yet even though the force of this argument is strong, the writer clearly recognizes that it will not be popular with all readers and thus concludes by offering a more "practical" reason to continue advancing the bounds of acceptable female education. A well-educated woman, says the writer, will make a far better wife to a man, as a man will have someone with whom he can have real conversation at the end of a long day, as opposed to merely being able to discuss matters such as children and the poultry-yard while staring vacantly into the fireplace. So, then, the article appeals to multiple kinds of readers for the same end: to advance female education.
3. "Original Criticism," The Tablet, 19 May 1795. This article states the mission of the periodical as a whole: to offer criticism on great literature of the day. "Our intention is to review every poet of eminence untouched by Johnson, and endeavour to point out his poetry. Nor shall we confine ourselves to poetry. . . . We shall endeavour to mark the excellencies and faults in the style of each author, and to make the reader acquainted with his peculiar manner." The article also welcomes readers to write in with their opinions, especially if they are different from opinions expressed by the publication. That such a paper started itself so early and genuinely wanted to create intellectual discourse regarding literature in the public sphere surprised and excited me. Clearly Americans wanted to distinguish themselves as legitimate proprietors of taste, not entirely dependent upon the decrees of the British when it came to selecting what counted as high art.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Affecting Anxiety: The Power of Sentimental Novels
I enjoyed reading Elizabeth Barnes's chapter--it provided a nice summation of many things we've been discussing (and I've been blogging about) throughout the semester while also offering a taste of something new.
The struggle for the novel to gain a true, unique national identity was rough, especially when you look at a work such as Charlotte Temple, with its ambiguous British/American label. (For more on my thoughts regarding Charlotte Temple, please refer to my blog post on that novel done earlier this year.) Barnes also highlighted the correlation between the promotion of American nationalism and the promotion of the "American" novel--was The Power of Sympathy truly worthy of being called "the first American novel," or was it simply an arbitrary label and nothing more? And did its failure on the market have anything to do with its inability to capture the essence of what Americans wanted in their novels? Perhaps it would have fared better had there not been the expectation of it being quintessentially American.
As we see through the popularity of Charlotte Temple, and as makes sense given the prevalence of Enlightenment ideals, American readers wanted to feel something when they read their novels. Even if the plot was, as it was in The Power of Sympathy, something that could have (and did) happened on American soil, people wanted their affectations evoked. People wanted validation for their own feelings and emotions, and novels helped to give them that. Successful novels allowed readers to have a dialogue between the text and their emotional psyches, and in such novels, the anxiety of influence--which to me seems inescapable, then, now, always--mattered not at all.
The struggle for the novel to gain a true, unique national identity was rough, especially when you look at a work such as Charlotte Temple, with its ambiguous British/American label. (For more on my thoughts regarding Charlotte Temple, please refer to my blog post on that novel done earlier this year.) Barnes also highlighted the correlation between the promotion of American nationalism and the promotion of the "American" novel--was The Power of Sympathy truly worthy of being called "the first American novel," or was it simply an arbitrary label and nothing more? And did its failure on the market have anything to do with its inability to capture the essence of what Americans wanted in their novels? Perhaps it would have fared better had there not been the expectation of it being quintessentially American.
As we see through the popularity of Charlotte Temple, and as makes sense given the prevalence of Enlightenment ideals, American readers wanted to feel something when they read their novels. Even if the plot was, as it was in The Power of Sympathy, something that could have (and did) happened on American soil, people wanted their affectations evoked. People wanted validation for their own feelings and emotions, and novels helped to give them that. Successful novels allowed readers to have a dialogue between the text and their emotional psyches, and in such novels, the anxiety of influence--which to me seems inescapable, then, now, always--mattered not at all.
Monday, November 14, 2011
The Reality of Representation: (Un)Defining the meaning of Female Authorship
So I've been thinking a lot about representation as of late. What representation really means, and whether it is in fact through representation that we can--and do--find the real.
How fortuitous, then, that Dobson and Zagarell's chapter on women writers in the early republic talks of--among other things--this very issue. Or at least the idea of representation. They don't further philosophize about it, which is fine. Leaves it open for me. According to Dobson and Zagarell, "by example and implication, the conventional writing that women produced expanded the representations of women in American culture itself" (369). My initial connotation of "representation" is not a particularly positive one, in that it makes me think of something artificial. And didn't women want to produce something real? But, in early America in particular, was there "a real thing" when it came to national identities, of men or women? It seems to me that was what was still being figured out, what people were looking for, and how were they to find it without any kind of model? In this sense, then, I do think that representations came before the real thing.
Of course, there was not any sort of clear cut representation of womanhood. Gender confusion and performativity are not issues new to us--they existed then, too. What did it mean to be a woman? And did writing genuinely answer this question? Dobson and Zagarell talk about the decision women (and surely we can extend this conversation to men, too) faced in regards to whether to use a pseudonym or their real name: what's in a name? As we've talked about in class before, money was so often a driving factor. Sigourney knew there was money in her real name (albeit not as much money as KeSha has in hers...), so she used it.
But did she, or other women, who were writing for money, write what they really wanted to write, or what would sell? Dobson and Zagarell tell us that "The construction of female authorship that emerged during the 1830s was increasingly restrictive" (377). Representations of women as domestic dominated (though they were not the only representations), and these representations served as a catalyst in the construction of female national identity.
Yet, perhaps because so much of women's writing dominated on local, not national levels, and because there were so very many marginal voices fighting to be heard, voices that did not adhere to the domestic trope, there was not a "uniform definition of female authorship by midcentury" (381). Is this a bad thing? And was there really a uniform definition of female authorship thereafter?
I think it shows how dynamic women were, that female authorship could not be defined in a boxed-up form, especially considering there seemed to be a correlation between the definition of female authorship and the definition of female-in-general.
The debate over the power of intellect in regards to gender has not disappeared in full today, and I think it is just as hard now to define what it means to be a "female author" and what it means to be a "male author." Quite frankly, I'd be more concerned and disheartened if such things were easy.
How fortuitous, then, that Dobson and Zagarell's chapter on women writers in the early republic talks of--among other things--this very issue. Or at least the idea of representation. They don't further philosophize about it, which is fine. Leaves it open for me. According to Dobson and Zagarell, "by example and implication, the conventional writing that women produced expanded the representations of women in American culture itself" (369). My initial connotation of "representation" is not a particularly positive one, in that it makes me think of something artificial. And didn't women want to produce something real? But, in early America in particular, was there "a real thing" when it came to national identities, of men or women? It seems to me that was what was still being figured out, what people were looking for, and how were they to find it without any kind of model? In this sense, then, I do think that representations came before the real thing.
Of course, there was not any sort of clear cut representation of womanhood. Gender confusion and performativity are not issues new to us--they existed then, too. What did it mean to be a woman? And did writing genuinely answer this question? Dobson and Zagarell talk about the decision women (and surely we can extend this conversation to men, too) faced in regards to whether to use a pseudonym or their real name: what's in a name? As we've talked about in class before, money was so often a driving factor. Sigourney knew there was money in her real name (albeit not as much money as KeSha has in hers...), so she used it.
But did she, or other women, who were writing for money, write what they really wanted to write, or what would sell? Dobson and Zagarell tell us that "The construction of female authorship that emerged during the 1830s was increasingly restrictive" (377). Representations of women as domestic dominated (though they were not the only representations), and these representations served as a catalyst in the construction of female national identity.
Yet, perhaps because so much of women's writing dominated on local, not national levels, and because there were so very many marginal voices fighting to be heard, voices that did not adhere to the domestic trope, there was not a "uniform definition of female authorship by midcentury" (381). Is this a bad thing? And was there really a uniform definition of female authorship thereafter?
I think it shows how dynamic women were, that female authorship could not be defined in a boxed-up form, especially considering there seemed to be a correlation between the definition of female authorship and the definition of female-in-general.
The debate over the power of intellect in regards to gender has not disappeared in full today, and I think it is just as hard now to define what it means to be a "female author" and what it means to be a "male author." Quite frankly, I'd be more concerned and disheartened if such things were easy.
Monday, November 7, 2011
The Power of Property, or, The Triumph of (E)Masculinity
How interesting that, according to David Leverenz, "[Male] Writers used American manhood for fresh subject material" (350), when this very writing seemed to make them feel less, for lack of a better word, manly in the first place. It makes me wonder if male writers were in fact using their own sense of American emasculation--not American manhood--for fresh subject material. Using such material, however, with the intent of transforming it into something that came to have a more masculine connotation.
And maybe that's part of the reason why these men kept writing? I mean, the impetus to give up was there. It was hard to make money, hard to do the things that made one a bona fide man in early America--own property, have a wife, have children. Clearly there was something of the revolutionary spirit in these writers. They didn't stop. They may have felt emasculated, or that they were pursuing something that seemed more womanly, but they kept at it. And it was only through keeping at it that they were able to help the profession evolve into something that they (men) deemed as having a masculine connotation. Was that the dream all along, then?
Of course, the anonymity factor continued to play a role here. Poor Nathanial Hawthorne, who used his real name only to have it supposed to be a fictitious label. (What's that do to a writer's ego?)
But, as I talked about last week, what's in a label anyway? Hawthorne, among many others, were patrons of the U.S. government. What impact does getting paid by America have on what you write about? Does being a patron of the country brand a different label onto your writing? Or was the (masculine) reputation more important than the content anyway?
It seems to me that the writing itself and the writer's reputation were both important. Perhaps having to juggle and attempt to balance the two was a cause of the "flux of contrary moods and potential depressions" written about and felt by male writers (361).
If nothing else, the aura of vitality combined with volatility, as Leverenz puts it, was an aura that certainly continued to co-exist with male authorship in America. Does it still exist now? I'm not sure. Things seem far more fragmented to me, and I'm not comfortable with making such a judgment. If I owned some property, maybe I'd be willing to take a more assertive stance.
And maybe that's part of the reason why these men kept writing? I mean, the impetus to give up was there. It was hard to make money, hard to do the things that made one a bona fide man in early America--own property, have a wife, have children. Clearly there was something of the revolutionary spirit in these writers. They didn't stop. They may have felt emasculated, or that they were pursuing something that seemed more womanly, but they kept at it. And it was only through keeping at it that they were able to help the profession evolve into something that they (men) deemed as having a masculine connotation. Was that the dream all along, then?
Of course, the anonymity factor continued to play a role here. Poor Nathanial Hawthorne, who used his real name only to have it supposed to be a fictitious label. (What's that do to a writer's ego?)
But, as I talked about last week, what's in a label anyway? Hawthorne, among many others, were patrons of the U.S. government. What impact does getting paid by America have on what you write about? Does being a patron of the country brand a different label onto your writing? Or was the (masculine) reputation more important than the content anyway?
It seems to me that the writing itself and the writer's reputation were both important. Perhaps having to juggle and attempt to balance the two was a cause of the "flux of contrary moods and potential depressions" written about and felt by male writers (361).
If nothing else, the aura of vitality combined with volatility, as Leverenz puts it, was an aura that certainly continued to co-exist with male authorship in America. Does it still exist now? I'm not sure. Things seem far more fragmented to me, and I'm not comfortable with making such a judgment. If I owned some property, maybe I'd be willing to take a more assertive stance.
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