I think it's quite normal to lose your motivation and question your choices. I am facing that situation right now. Why on Earth should I be studying English language and literature at the master's programme? I feel that this is all so completely useless and quite detached from reality (which is probably why I like(d) it in the first place).
I have a professor who claims that after learning about statistics, she didn't touch the topic for years. Now there she is standing in front of the lecture hall and arguing how you can almost always use the t-test. Maybe it's the same with me... I feel completely uninspired at the moment but ten years from now... Yeah, baby!
I've really started to dread the contemporary fiction seminars. It should be all my subject matter. British fiction published since the 1980s? I should be thrilled! Alas, I am not. The reading matter is wonderful, I have not a single word of criticism to say about that. I've just grown so tired from reading so deeply into the book.
"I see the author has used this word here. What could it mean?"
Really? I have no idea. My money is on the fact that if you asked any particular author, 98% of the times they have a suspiciously similar answer. (And no, I did not use the t-test to check that percentage.)
The best way to kill all the joy of something is to dissect it and analyse every single detail of it. I still like books. I'm just tired of being on my toes all the time to find a meaning hidden behind it. I miss reading literature just for the sake of it, now I keep analysing everything. It doesn't help when you have been taught all kinds of cool theories (which, by the way, I am not criticising, since most of them really are cool in their own freaky way). I find it hard to explain it in words (because after all, language is imperfect but that's the only thing we've got, so we need to roll with it) but there is some hidden resistance in me against what I am doing. I don't want to speak up at the literature seminars anymore (and usually I don't have to because of our extremely active and talkative course) because I feel like there is nothing I want to say about these works of fiction that we read, except for maybe "I liked it, it was really nice to read." Something inside me refuses to analyse, I feel like I am just raping the poor author by reading stuff into their words that they might not even be aware of.
Some of these days I think about just quitting and opting for a teacher training instead. At least it's something more practical and easily applicable in a non-academic word. What use is it in the real world to claim "I've read some Derrida" or "Don't you find Angela Carter's rewriting of fairy tales just fascinating!" Again, don't get me wrong... although I can approximately understand 0.5% of the stuff Derrida is talking about, I like and agree with that 0.5% and Carter really seems fascinating to read. It all just boils down to this age old question: "What's the point of it all?"
I need to be reinspired. I need to start believing again in what I am doing. I need to find discussing literature fascinating once again. Or else I need to find some public school and be the next John Keating.
Edit added weeks later:
Another reason why I dislike discussing literature. I am right now supposed to be writing my presentation on the wonderful novel by Salman Rushdie called The Satanic Verses. Really, a brilliant book and I so enjoyed reading it. And my presentation, what is that about then? Well, prepared to be amazed (*sarcastic smile*): the mixture of classical elements of Air, Water and Fire in the novel. I'm just disregarding the whole witty and edgy content of the novel and talking about something so silly. For Pete's sake! I'm a case magic realism myself
I have a professor who claims that after learning about statistics, she didn't touch the topic for years. Now there she is standing in front of the lecture hall and arguing how you can almost always use the t-test. Maybe it's the same with me... I feel completely uninspired at the moment but ten years from now... Yeah, baby!
I've really started to dread the contemporary fiction seminars. It should be all my subject matter. British fiction published since the 1980s? I should be thrilled! Alas, I am not. The reading matter is wonderful, I have not a single word of criticism to say about that. I've just grown so tired from reading so deeply into the book.
"I see the author has used this word here. What could it mean?"
Really? I have no idea. My money is on the fact that if you asked any particular author, 98% of the times they have a suspiciously similar answer. (And no, I did not use the t-test to check that percentage.)
The best way to kill all the joy of something is to dissect it and analyse every single detail of it. I still like books. I'm just tired of being on my toes all the time to find a meaning hidden behind it. I miss reading literature just for the sake of it, now I keep analysing everything. It doesn't help when you have been taught all kinds of cool theories (which, by the way, I am not criticising, since most of them really are cool in their own freaky way). I find it hard to explain it in words (because after all, language is imperfect but that's the only thing we've got, so we need to roll with it) but there is some hidden resistance in me against what I am doing. I don't want to speak up at the literature seminars anymore (and usually I don't have to because of our extremely active and talkative course) because I feel like there is nothing I want to say about these works of fiction that we read, except for maybe "I liked it, it was really nice to read." Something inside me refuses to analyse, I feel like I am just raping the poor author by reading stuff into their words that they might not even be aware of.
Some of these days I think about just quitting and opting for a teacher training instead. At least it's something more practical and easily applicable in a non-academic word. What use is it in the real world to claim "I've read some Derrida" or "Don't you find Angela Carter's rewriting of fairy tales just fascinating!" Again, don't get me wrong... although I can approximately understand 0.5% of the stuff Derrida is talking about, I like and agree with that 0.5% and Carter really seems fascinating to read. It all just boils down to this age old question: "What's the point of it all?"
I need to be reinspired. I need to start believing again in what I am doing. I need to find discussing literature fascinating once again. Or else I need to find some public school and be the next John Keating.
Edit added weeks later:
Another reason why I dislike discussing literature. I am right now supposed to be writing my presentation on the wonderful novel by Salman Rushdie called The Satanic Verses. Really, a brilliant book and I so enjoyed reading it. And my presentation, what is that about then? Well, prepared to be amazed (*sarcastic smile*): the mixture of classical elements of Air, Water and Fire in the novel. I'm just disregarding the whole witty and edgy content of the novel and talking about something so silly. For Pete's sake! I'm a case magic realism myself
2 comments:
Tahaksin rõkata sellest, et keegi mõtleb minuga samamoodi. Ka mind häirib aeg-ajalt see tohutu abstraktsus, mis igasuguseid kirjandusteooriaid saadab. Meie "field" tundubki olevat kõige elementaarsemate asjade võimalikult keeruliselt lahtiseletamine.
Aga tahakski vahel lihtsalt lihtsalt lugeda, nautida, mitte otsida kõigele seletusi ja põhjendusi ja varjundeid. Sest et enamik asju ongi ju selleks kirjutatud, et puudutada inimeste emotsioone, aga see, mida meie teeme, nagu sa ütlesid, tapab kõik need emotsioonid ära.
guess what - ma tean, mida sa tunned ja varsti ma enam ei suuda!
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