Sigmund Freud argues that a baby, upon sucking on “its mother’s breast for milk” will “discover in doing so that this biologically essential activity is also pleasurable; and this, for Freud, is the first dawning of sexuality” (133). The baby’s mouth is not only an organ for survival, but an “erotogenic zone,” which “the child might reactivate a few years later by sucking its thumb, and a few years later than that by kissing” (133). As the infant grows, “other erotogenic ones come into play.” Essentially, Freud argues that there are 3 stages: oral, anal, and phallic. The oral stage is the first stage of sexual life. In the next stage, the anal stage, “the anus becomes an erotogenic zone, and with the child’s pleasure in defacation a new contrast between activity and passivity, unknown in the oral stage, comes to light” (133). In this stage, the child derives pleasure from destruction and expulsion, “but it is also connected with the desire for retention and possessive control.” Finally, the phallic stage describes the focus of the child’s sexual drive on the genitals, “but is called ‘phallic’ rather than ‘genital’ because according to Freud only the male organ is recognized at this point” (133).
In no way should this theory be regarded as flawless; nonetheless, I must admit it is an amusing one to ponder (forgive my awkward sense of humor). While reading Freud, I could not help but think of my favorite character on television: Stewie Griffin. In an attempt to support Freud’s (outrageous) theory, I searched for evidence of these three stages in the popular show “Family Guy,” hoping to find relevant episodes where Stewie Griffin, the witty infant, acts in relation to each of these phases.
In the following excerpt, Stewie Griffin experiences extreme withdrawals when his mother, Lois, decides to switch over to the bottle. In a moment of desperation, Stewie finds another woman to provide breast milk.
It is clear that Stewie derives some kind of pleasure in using his mouth (the oral stage) to get milk.
In this next clip, Peter, Stewie's father, is potty training Stewie:
Although we can see that Stewie fails in his attempt to control his “defecation,” it is clear that there is a “contrast between activity and passivity” and that Stewie is “connected with the desire for retention and possessive control” (133).
In the following clip, Stewie demonstrates signs of the phallic stage as he gets ready for his babysitter to arrive:
In this episode, it is evident that Stewie's sexual drive is in the "phallic stage."
I’m not sure whether Seth MacFarlane, the (genius) creator of “Family Guy,” had Freud in mind during any of the episodes; nevertheless, there seems to be an interesting association with some of Freud’s theories.
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
That's Not What I Meant!
“For literature to happen, the reader is quite as vital as the author” (65).
American Hermeneuticist, E. D. Hirsch Jr. has argued that “an author’s meaning is his own, and should not be stolen or trespassed upon by the reader. The meaning of the text is not to be socialized, made the public property of its various readers; it belongs solely to the author…” (59). My response to such an elitist remark is: then why write? What is the point of writing (at least in the “creative” genre) if the author’s “meaning” (which is in itself complex and debatable) is already established?
If we are all reading to understand a single, non-debatable meaning created by the author, then essentially we are saying that this meaning is authoritative and true. As a result, the author becomes an all-knowing, powerful voice with whom we cannot argue. This is dangerously close to a dictatorship type of literary world. If the reader is not allowed to trespass into the author’s text – meaning the reader is not able to come to his/her own interpretation – then, there is no reader. One can only be called a ‘reader’ if there is interaction with the text. When the meaning is already given by the author, then interaction cannot happen. Instead of intellectual freedom there will suppression.
Hirsch’s argument that “meaning is unchangeable because it is always the intentional act of an individual at some particular point in time” is also problematic (61). Meanings do change. They change depending on context and time.
As the above image suggests, one cannot fully grasp the “pure” intention of the author (or speaker) even when there is a unanimous understanding of the language. These two figures in the image are both imagining a tree, but their interpretations are quite different. The one on the left visualizes a complex, large, healthy tree. The other character…not so much. What is the reason for this difference? I insist that one’s background, including education, experience, and imaginations are at least in part responsible for such a different conception of a single word.
The understanding and interpretation of literature is a lot like that image above. As readers, we cannot fully grasp the “intended” meaning of the author. Understanding is “realizing new potential in the text, making a difference to it” (62). It is alright to have a different understanding than the one the author originally intended. To me, this is the art of literature, “for readers do not of course encounter texts in a void: all readers are socially and historically positioned, and how they interpret literary works will be deeply shaped by this fact” (72).
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
American Hermeneuticist, E. D. Hirsch Jr. has argued that “an author’s meaning is his own, and should not be stolen or trespassed upon by the reader. The meaning of the text is not to be socialized, made the public property of its various readers; it belongs solely to the author…” (59). My response to such an elitist remark is: then why write? What is the point of writing (at least in the “creative” genre) if the author’s “meaning” (which is in itself complex and debatable) is already established?
If we are all reading to understand a single, non-debatable meaning created by the author, then essentially we are saying that this meaning is authoritative and true. As a result, the author becomes an all-knowing, powerful voice with whom we cannot argue. This is dangerously close to a dictatorship type of literary world. If the reader is not allowed to trespass into the author’s text – meaning the reader is not able to come to his/her own interpretation – then, there is no reader. One can only be called a ‘reader’ if there is interaction with the text. When the meaning is already given by the author, then interaction cannot happen. Instead of intellectual freedom there will suppression.
Hirsch’s argument that “meaning is unchangeable because it is always the intentional act of an individual at some particular point in time” is also problematic (61). Meanings do change. They change depending on context and time.
As the above image suggests, one cannot fully grasp the “pure” intention of the author (or speaker) even when there is a unanimous understanding of the language. These two figures in the image are both imagining a tree, but their interpretations are quite different. The one on the left visualizes a complex, large, healthy tree. The other character…not so much. What is the reason for this difference? I insist that one’s background, including education, experience, and imaginations are at least in part responsible for such a different conception of a single word.
The understanding and interpretation of literature is a lot like that image above. As readers, we cannot fully grasp the “intended” meaning of the author. Understanding is “realizing new potential in the text, making a difference to it” (62). It is alright to have a different understanding than the one the author originally intended. To me, this is the art of literature, “for readers do not of course encounter texts in a void: all readers are socially and historically positioned, and how they interpret literary works will be deeply shaped by this fact” (72).
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Canon is full of it -- and I don't mean great Literature
"Anything can be literature, and anything which is regarded as unalterably and unquestionably literature -- Shakespeare, for example -- can cease to be literature" (9)
Despite what some people will persistently argue, literature is not objective. I come to this conclusion after reflecting on two important ideas: (1) that the so-called “great” Literature is purely a social construct, and (2) literature is not based on what is written but how one interprets it.
Allow me to begin my discussion with the social construct that is “the literary canon.” There is no such thing as “great literature.” It simply does not exist. This unquestioned canon “has to be recognized as a construct, fashioned by particular people for particular reasons at a certain time” (10). Let’s not forget that art is often merely a commodity, just like most other things in life. Some of the most esteemed writers wrote purely to influence or persuade people politically, economically, or socially. These types of writings became valuable because they materialized the visions of upper-class, white society. Because of this, the “value” factor becomes problematic. “Value,” after all, “is a transitive term: it means whatever is valued by certain people in specific situations, according to particular criteria” (10). Therefore, literature is not objective. Instead, it is a subjective construct based on the decisions of only a few men. Since this is the case, “it is thus quite possible that, given a deep enough transformation of our history, we may in the future produce a society which is unable to get anything at all of Shakespeare,” who is, of course, part of this biased canon.
All this brings me to point number two: Literature is not based on what is written but how one interprets it. Let me illustrate with an example.
First, let’s consider this photo:
At first glance, this may seem to be a very basic picture pointing to an exit from a subway station. However, let’s imagine this scenario: a woman who has been oppressed her entire life decides to run away. She might view the subway station as a representation of her life – the timely schedule the subway runs on could be compared to the strict routine of her life, while the narrow walls may represent the limited chances for escape from such a mundane existence. For her, then, the “way out” sign could be symbolic and meaningful in ways other people cannot fathom. It could symbolize her chance to escape and free herself from the firm grasp of societal expectations.
The “way out” sign, then, can have multiple interpretations based on context and personal experiences. In the same way, literature – including any form of art – is not based on what is written literally, but how one interprets its meaning. The interpretation is more important than the text itself.
Literature, like all forms of art, is subjective. It receives its value not because a few white men chose to label it “great” decades ago, but because it has meaning to someone somewhere.
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Despite what some people will persistently argue, literature is not objective. I come to this conclusion after reflecting on two important ideas: (1) that the so-called “great” Literature is purely a social construct, and (2) literature is not based on what is written but how one interprets it.
Allow me to begin my discussion with the social construct that is “the literary canon.” There is no such thing as “great literature.” It simply does not exist. This unquestioned canon “has to be recognized as a construct, fashioned by particular people for particular reasons at a certain time” (10). Let’s not forget that art is often merely a commodity, just like most other things in life. Some of the most esteemed writers wrote purely to influence or persuade people politically, economically, or socially. These types of writings became valuable because they materialized the visions of upper-class, white society. Because of this, the “value” factor becomes problematic. “Value,” after all, “is a transitive term: it means whatever is valued by certain people in specific situations, according to particular criteria” (10). Therefore, literature is not objective. Instead, it is a subjective construct based on the decisions of only a few men. Since this is the case, “it is thus quite possible that, given a deep enough transformation of our history, we may in the future produce a society which is unable to get anything at all of Shakespeare,” who is, of course, part of this biased canon.
All this brings me to point number two: Literature is not based on what is written but how one interprets it. Let me illustrate with an example.
First, let’s consider this photo:
At first glance, this may seem to be a very basic picture pointing to an exit from a subway station. However, let’s imagine this scenario: a woman who has been oppressed her entire life decides to run away. She might view the subway station as a representation of her life – the timely schedule the subway runs on could be compared to the strict routine of her life, while the narrow walls may represent the limited chances for escape from such a mundane existence. For her, then, the “way out” sign could be symbolic and meaningful in ways other people cannot fathom. It could symbolize her chance to escape and free herself from the firm grasp of societal expectations.
The “way out” sign, then, can have multiple interpretations based on context and personal experiences. In the same way, literature – including any form of art – is not based on what is written literally, but how one interprets its meaning. The interpretation is more important than the text itself.
Literature, like all forms of art, is subjective. It receives its value not because a few white men chose to label it “great” decades ago, but because it has meaning to someone somewhere.
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Well if Longinus Says it's Sublime...
“For the effect of elevated language is not to persuade the hearers, but to amaze them; and at all times, and in every way, what transports us with wonder is more telling than what merely persuades or gratifies us” (114).
What is sublimity? Perhaps it is the inexplicable. As much as “great” minds (whatever that is and whoever decides it) have tried to explain the sublime, it still entails a sort of mystery. It can be described only in symbolic terms. Longinus, in his attempt to describe sublimity, explains that it is language that can transcend the limits of the human condition. He explains, “For a piece is truly great only if it can stand up to repeated examination, and it is difficult, or rather, impossible to resist its appeal, and it remains firmly and ineffaceably in the memory” (120).
There are, according to Longinus, five sources of sublimity:
1. the ability to form grand conceptions
2. stimulus of powerful and inspired emotion
3. two types of figures: figures of thought and figures of speech
4. noble diction
5. dignified and elevated word-arrangement
As peachy as this all sounds, it stimulates many questions in my humble mind. Firstly, I wonder who is to judge sublimity. In other words, is sublimity subjective? Is it universal or personal? I think Longinus would argue for the former. If Longinus says something is sublime, then it must be so!
During class yesterday, we were asked to share our thoughts on the sublime, and just as I suspected, everyone’s examples were different. We were asked, “Why is this sublime to you?” I don’t know how Longinus would feel about that question, but I think it was the right one to ask. Sublimity is not universal. We all come from different backgrounds, experiences, beliefs, and ideas, so how can we be moved by the same text? What is sublime for one person may be foreign to another.
I can think of numerous texts that have been sublime for me based on Longinus’ definition.
Here’s one:
To answer the question that was asked of us yesterday (Why is this sublime to me?), I would say that it inspires emotions otherwise lost.
Why does this happen?
It is important, I think, to acknowledge my identity as an Armenian-American. Although I will not get into the tragic history of the Armenians, it is, nevertheless, a crucial element in inspiring these emotions for me as an Armenian.
I realize that this video may not be sublime for all who watch it, but that is precisely the point. Since sublimity (as I have tried to explain) is subjective, it does not have to be universal. Context, content, and personal experience will influence one’s own definition of the sublime.
After all, who are we to judge sublimity?
Works Cited: Longinus. "On the Sublime." Classical Literary Criticism. Trans.Penelope Murray and T.S.Dorsch. London: Penguin, 2000. 113-166.
Print.
What is sublimity? Perhaps it is the inexplicable. As much as “great” minds (whatever that is and whoever decides it) have tried to explain the sublime, it still entails a sort of mystery. It can be described only in symbolic terms. Longinus, in his attempt to describe sublimity, explains that it is language that can transcend the limits of the human condition. He explains, “For a piece is truly great only if it can stand up to repeated examination, and it is difficult, or rather, impossible to resist its appeal, and it remains firmly and ineffaceably in the memory” (120).
There are, according to Longinus, five sources of sublimity:
1. the ability to form grand conceptions
2. stimulus of powerful and inspired emotion
3. two types of figures: figures of thought and figures of speech
4. noble diction
5. dignified and elevated word-arrangement
As peachy as this all sounds, it stimulates many questions in my humble mind. Firstly, I wonder who is to judge sublimity. In other words, is sublimity subjective? Is it universal or personal? I think Longinus would argue for the former. If Longinus says something is sublime, then it must be so!
During class yesterday, we were asked to share our thoughts on the sublime, and just as I suspected, everyone’s examples were different. We were asked, “Why is this sublime to you?” I don’t know how Longinus would feel about that question, but I think it was the right one to ask. Sublimity is not universal. We all come from different backgrounds, experiences, beliefs, and ideas, so how can we be moved by the same text? What is sublime for one person may be foreign to another.
I can think of numerous texts that have been sublime for me based on Longinus’ definition.
Here’s one:
To answer the question that was asked of us yesterday (Why is this sublime to me?), I would say that it inspires emotions otherwise lost.
Why does this happen?
It is important, I think, to acknowledge my identity as an Armenian-American. Although I will not get into the tragic history of the Armenians, it is, nevertheless, a crucial element in inspiring these emotions for me as an Armenian.
I realize that this video may not be sublime for all who watch it, but that is precisely the point. Since sublimity (as I have tried to explain) is subjective, it does not have to be universal. Context, content, and personal experience will influence one’s own definition of the sublime.
After all, who are we to judge sublimity?
Works Cited: Longinus. "On the Sublime." Classical Literary Criticism. Trans.Penelope Murray and T.S.Dorsch. London: Penguin, 2000. 113-166.
Print.
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