Hello, my little hedgehogs! I have unfortunately not read another book to review as of late, at least not any outside of my newly started university courses.
In resuming my educational pursuits, I have been reminded of my struggles in literature classes, and I wanted to share my experiences.
Through school, I’m sure everyone’s had to read a classic novel or some other important work of writing. Short stories, lengthy memoirs, poetry, and everything in between. Boring or entertaining, everyone’s had to experience it once, or so I assume. Read a book, and then have a discussion as a class about it. Simple, especially since these well-reviewed texts have a solidified meaning. Their symbolism and commentary on society are all so obvious. Everyone understands it, and that is why literature is part of education.
I have always been terrible with interpreting the meaning of literature. In elementary and middle school, I just about failed every assignment having to do with finding “the main idea” of a short story. By the time I got to high school, I was lucky enough to have classes that repeated some classic books in their courses to have a better idea of what was asked of me. I eventually managed to compensate for my lack of understanding, but the skill of inferring never got better.
I’m facing these challenges again in university. It’s been nearly four years since I last took a literature class, so I’d forgotten how painful this was for me to do. I recently had a professor ask us to read two novellas and explain how they fit into this highly specific box. I steeped on the texts for the past week, hoping I could magically manifest the interpretation. I couldn’t. Even after consulting sources to help me understand historical context of when they were written (not about the books themselves; I wanted to do the interpretations on my own), I still couldn’t make the connections. Not for what my professor was looking for, anyway.
I consider literature to be akin to art. Artwork is subjected to so much scrutiny, and viewers can derive their own meaning from the paintings they view in museums. That is the beauty of art.
Some famous paintings have their expected analysis, too, just like books. I went through it during my time taking years of art classes (a dream long dead), and I was no better at interpreting the meaning of a skull in the corner of a painting than I was the symbolism of a bird in a book.
Unless the creator themselves explained the specific way they want their work to be viewed and understood, I find the idea of assigning important meanings to these works to be ridiculous. At least, I find it ridiculous to expect everyone to also read the same pages or look at the same paintings and think exactly the same way about them.
Days like this leave me drained. I wonder what drove me to take a course combining World War I and II history and interpreting wartime literature—a devastating decision that will emphasize my primary weaknesses. I wonder why I don’t feel immediately compelled to drop the course.
Maybe I hope to get better with aligning my muddled thoughts with the pristine and deliberate “norm” that is expected of me. That, or I’m afraid of giving up. It is likely both.
Sorrin Reads 