There are few things better than a good letter, says this old teacher and aficionado of writing, so I was delighted recently to receive two extraordinary emails, one on top of the other, from a recent graduate who has gone to study abroad. The first one, long delayed, was an account of a trip he & a few classmates took during the summer to another country known for the esteem in which it holds its poets, artists, craftsmen and other heroes. In it he tells about the poetic and other monuments they visited (and the food they ate, speaking of their own heroic labours).  A fine letter about a fine trip, and incidentally a refutation of Yeats when he says of the young, ‘Caught in that sensual music, all neglect / Monuments of unageing intellect’.

But the second letter: it would not be too much to say it was dithyrambic, at least in tone, and happy, as Wordsworth was happy in saying, ‘Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive.’ When Barzun said that entering university should be ‘a revelation of wonders undreamed of’, he was speaking of experiences like my former student’s. He reports working hard to do well in his chosen course of study, which has been gratifying; but he saves his greatest and most enthusiastic praise for his co- and extracurricular activities, particularly reading poetry and making music, but also his projects at building things.

Poetry and music! How sensible in a STEM major, which is what he is. He is a positive echo of Darwin, another STEM major (do we see why this is an idiot acronym?), who neglected what my former student has been embracing. Darwin reported in later life, ‘If I had to live my life again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week…. The loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness….”

Happiness! It is easy to forget this desideratum, or to lose sight of it among the other things we hope education will do. (I speak here of honest, informed, non-magical hopes. By contrast, much contemporary thinking about education seems to aspire to Lady Bracknell’s assertion that ‘ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.’)

The type of happiness I want to speak about now is reported in Robert Louis Stevenson’s wonderful essay ‘The Lantern-Bearers.’ It is the type my former student has been experiencing. Briefly, the lantern-bearers exist in a town of Stevenson’s boyhood, where every autumn they ‘tasted in high degree the glory of existence.’ They did so by carrying bull’s-eye lanterns lit but hidden from passersby. They were devoted to this fine but hidden light, which they shared when congregating on the links outside town where they shone their lights.

A prosaic ‘realist’ such as Stevenson despises but the Gates Foundation approves of may complain that the boys smell of hot tin, they burn their fingers, they meet in a damp sandy dirty hole, they have unremarkable conversations, and there is no way to ‘measure’ what they are learning and thus no value reliably added. This ‘realist’ would miss the point. I have written about my school’s ‘Cave of Music’, but there is more to say about its musical lantern-bearers. Some of them gather before 7:00 a.m. in the damp of early morning to make music. (Sound, unlike the light of a bull’s-eye lantern, is not easily hidden). Some break into song in the stairwells or gather to sing Renaissance madrigals at sundown in the quad outside my window. Some, the rascals, when they think I am not looking, take out their sheet music to confer secretly during class. Some pursue their music after graduating. Another former student, who joined his college choir abroad, is back home and has joined a choir of alumni who still sing under the baton of our headmaster, who used to be the choirmaster. (Who says administrators can’t be lantern-bearers?) The group of graduates reported above, who visited the monuments of poetry and history, are lantern-bearers. And so is my letter-writing ‘STEM’ student.

Education must allow them to bear their lanterns, for Stevenson says, ‘The true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy resides.’



C and Other Notes

Sometimes we can be grateful and baffled at the same time by articles we read about education. A good example is one sent me by a friend, an invaluable conduit of research and a thinker about teaching whose letters and conversation go beyond thought-clichés. This article includes a review of three studies comparing students according to the technology of note-taking they used. “In three studies, we found that students who took notes on laptops performed worse on conceptual questions than students who took notes longhand.” The authors of the studies offered an explanation: since longhand can’t keep up with the professor’s words the way keyboarding can, longhand note-takers are ‘forced to process, condense, and use their own words’. All this real-time thinking done in the heat of the moment becomes memorable as well as effective.

This discussion took me back to university, and in particular to the classroom of Professor ‘C Minus’ Schilling, the superb but exigent teacher of a course on American foreign policy. I had developed a technique of note-taking by which I would try to discern the controlling ideas and the underlying outline while taking notes, marking the outline points with the ‘Romans’ and ‘Arabics’ of the old-fashioned outline form as the lecture proceeded or later that day.  In the margin I would make quick judgments of what was in the main body: an exclamation point marked a good item, while a star marked something of central importance. Question marks identified puzzles or dark matter. Statements of questionable value got the mark of ‘BS’.

I had neither an eidetic memory nor the power of instant synthesis, so these notes helped, particularly in C Minus’s class, where my and my classmates’ pens would smoke across the page as his lectures proceeded. Did this real-time ‘processing’ that we did while taking longhand notes help us to comprehend and remember what C Minus said? It is hard not to think so; hence my smile of recognition as I read these findings.

But I wasn’t smiling at another part of the article. You would think that research verifying the value of longhand notes would yield only one conclusion—but no, our author went in an unexpected direction. Instead of promoting individual note-taking in longhand, she promotes ‘designated note-takers’ to type for the rest of the class in turn, posting notes on a class web page.

The ostensible benefit is that each student thereby has his notes scrutinized by the teacher and learns thereby to do better. There is some merit in that claim, but not as much as in the practice we used to call ‘comparing notes’. In the case of C Minus’s class, a bunch of us would go over our material from time to time, editing in light of our discussions and anchoring our insights in conversation. Contrast this and the ethos of having the material ‘just a click away’ and you will understand where the problem lies.

* * *

While preparing this posting I Googled C Minus’s name and was saddened to learn that he had died in 2013 after a 59-year career at my university. Students who braved his severe marking to take his course were nearly uniform in praising it as a highlight of their undergraduate studies. Students who visited his office after receiving one of his low grades on the midterm came away convinced that, yes, they deserved the mark they got and resolved to do better on the final exam. I was prouder of the B+ I got from him than of many of the A’s I received from other professors.

His unique style of lecturing included remarkable and sometimes hilarious ‘enactments’. I remember especially his imitation of a MIRV-missile attack. He had the curious habit of reinforcing his points by drawing series of parallel line segments on the blackboard. By the end of the lecture the board would look like one of Jasper Johns’ line pictures (do a Google image search of Jasper Johns Lines). I eventually realized that he would start a new doodle when he shifted to a new argument or main point and could use the doodles to help organize my notes.

One day a classmate asserted that the Spanish-American War was promoted by American business interests in general for their profit. He said, ‘That’s an interesting thesis, Madam, but there is not a shred of evidence to support it.’ I looked at a classmate of mine, and we both started ducking as we wrote, like ‘Milton’s Daughters Taking Dictation’ by Romney. The panzer cannon let off its first BOOM, and then for the next twenty minutes C Minus shot the thesis to rubble.

We all knew that he was destroying the thesis and not our classmate, who was not kept by the experience from asserting other ‘theses’ later in the course. On the last day of class he ended early with the unexpected announcement that he ‘objects in principle to students’ conducting evaluations of their professors.’ He then said, ‘For all I know, you will find the packet on my table of interest’ and left the classroom. One of us went up to inspect it, and it turned out to be forms for the students’ ‘course evaluation guide’. We filled it the forms in, ignoring C Minus’s last word of the term, and one of us took the forms to the Guide. When it came out at the end of the year, C Minus ended up with the strongest overall rating in the department.


The Newspaper Test

Last week I wrote about a successful businessman who said that the most important thing a student can learn for a successful career in business is how to write because when you learn how to write, you learn how to think. Along these lines I will cast back to my tenure, before teaching, in an engineering and construction company whose president became Secretary of State. (Before his work in business he had served in three other cabinet positions.) Occasionally a memo from the president would cross my humble desk. When one did, I was always impressed by its lucidity and freedom from jargon, cliché and baloney.

These four qualities help us to know what to look for in good writing; others can be found in Clear and Simple as the Truth by Francis-Noël Thomas and Mark Turner. Take for example their dictum that ‘classic prose’ is to be read not solved. If you don’t immediately know what kind of bad writing I am talking about, look at the winners of the late Denis Dutton’s Bad Writing Contest to see. Another justly famous kind of badness is Orwell’s translation of a famous passage from Ecclesiastes into polysyllabic flab.

How do we judge good and bad writing? This posting went into some detail, but for today’s discussion I want to reprint an excerpt from an essay by a high-school student that got an undeserved 4/6 from the New York State Regents, a passable mark. It opens, “In life, ‘no two people regard the world in exactly the same way,’ as J. W. von Goethe says. Everyone sees and reacts to things in different ways. Even though they may see the world in similar ways, no two people’s views will ever be exactly the same. This statement is true since everyone sees things through different viewpoints.” It is entirely free of content except the title extract, whose sense is repeated three times, the third time with question-begging. A good writing teacher (but not software that marks writing) could help the student see and solve these problems. A good writing test would give such writing  a failing grade.

Arum and Roksa say that college students are more likely to learn when they have teachers with high expectations, and of course this goes for high-school students too. It’s therefore a pity that so many ‘universities’ systematically prevent this from occurring by basing personnel decisions on surveys taken of students who are more interested in ease than in expectation. But a teacher must not just ‘have’ expectations; he or she must act on them, and schools and universities must establish and maintain conditions in which this teacherly action is possible. It is hard work, so there must not be too much of it to do properly.

Two of my students got full marks on their IB Literature Extended Essays, which I supervised. The IBO prescribes five hours of contact time between student and supervisor, though the supervisor must obviously spend the preparation time needed to make the contact valuable. What is more, the supervisor is forbidden to edit or proofread drafts. The two students and I conferred at all stages of the work, and as the diplomats say, the discussions were productive. The students are bright and productive; they had a thing or two to learn not just about their subjects but also about writing and thinking; and they learned it. (One was on Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde; the other was on Calvin and Hobbes.)

Oh, yes: two others did not get full marks. One of them still got an A, adopting a risky strategy for rewriting midway through the process, in which the risk paid off. The other, whose best writing is as good as high-school writing gets, was not motivated by the task and wrote as if not motivated. This brings us to a very important point that ‘value’-‘added’ ‘metrics’ overlook: a teacher with the best will in the world can lead the proverbial horse to water but can’t make him drink.

One thing the teacher has, or ought to have, in addition to functioning good judgment, is the fortitude to use it, and to back it up with grades, including failing grades. If little Dobbin wants to make messes on the sidewalk and eat the flowers from the garden, he must be made to learn that it is not all right. It’s the same as with Alex’s sailing school (see last week’s posting): you’ve got to learn to right the boat, and you’ve got to do so by actually righting a boat. As with sailing, so with writing: the way to learn writing is to write. The writing must be criticized, and it must be done again and again. That is what Arum and Roksa’s ‘writing-intensive course’ is.

One way to show what schools and universities are doing would be to subject student writing to the Newspaper Test. In this test five A and five B papers are selected randomly and published anonymously in the daily community newspaper with this introduction:

‘STU is proud to present this random selection of excellent and good student writing so the community can see how well its students are learning this essential task.’



Failing and Sailing

As an expatriate teacher I often spend my summer holiday at least partly on trips to see people I’ve been away from. This summer’s visits included get-togethers, but it also included a reunion. A cousin of mine and her husband, whom I had last seen over twenty-five years ago, had settled in a ‘flyover city’ that I had carelessly flown over all these years. The business they started there became highly successful, but they recently decided to sell it and retire to a coastal place well known for its semi-rural charm.

During my last visit they had two very young children. Now both are grown. The second son, after graduating from a small liberal-arts college, found a job at the home office of a ‘tech giant’ not too far from his parents. Number one son turned away from academics to ‘work with his hands’. (Arabic-speakers, when someone’s manual artistry or labor has made their life easier or more worth living, call down a blessing on him: tislam eedak: blessings on your hands. We lack that appreciative expressiveness.)

The episode in his career that his father chose to relate to me was his tenure as a teacher at a sailing school for young people. The first thing to say is that a candidate couldn’t even start the sailing course if he or she couldn’t swim offshore and back or right a capsized little boat alone. The teachers would approach the candidate in the water and call out advice on righting if it was needed, but the candidate had to do something with the advice, and failure was a very real option.

Some of the children’s parents (and many of them were used to getting their way) would plead for admission if Junior failed, and sometimes even asked that the tasks be waived. Not a chance. Qualification was real, and Alex was expected to hold to the standards in the face of tears and countervailing pressure.

It was a good story, and nothing needed to be said about applicability to his teaching cousin’s work, but my cousin’s husband also had one bit of advice—maybe for me and maybe for my students. This highly successful entrepreneur said, ‘If there is one thing that a student should learn in order to prepare for a successful business career, it is how to write because in learning how to write, you learn how to think.’



High Noon

Schools in Hong Kong let out for the summer holiday in mid-July, but exams finish a few weeks earlier, thus disproving the claim that the city’s students do nothing except for an exam. My school’s grade 12 students, having finished their Education Department or IB exams, maintain a minimal presence on campus, with exceptions to be discussed below; but the lower grades have ‘post-exam activities’ and, in the IB division, continued classes. Among the most prominent activities at this time of year are musical and dramatic productions.

The four year-end concerts are done without the competitive pressure of the citywide Interschool Music Festival held in March and, some people including me think, produce better music as a result (though the competitive results are also formidable). I attended two of the four.

One highlight was the appearance of the senior mixed choir comprising choristers from our school and our sister-school with the senior orchestra, including the former first violinist, a 12th-grader who had given up his chair to a junior.  Together the groups played and sang ‘Wenn alles Fleisch es ist wie Gras’ from Brahms’s German Requiem. The performance was dedicated to the memory of two popular members of staff who had died recently. Another was Francis Poulenc’s four little pieces of St Francis of Assisi. Light pleasure came from a number of jauntily done barbershop numbers.

The Drama Committee performed an original murder mystery, with the audience seated as if at a wedding banquet. It was done with great verve and dedication by a cast including many 12th-graders in their valedictory performance, and seems to have fooled most of the detectives in the audience. One might prefer the Drama teacher’s choice of new material and stages, or the music teacher’s more traditional choices, but I think that that is not the main point in school productions.

The main point is to give students a chance to immerse themselves in their art and then to share it with a receptive but critical audience. It is to show that art matters and, as Wallace Stevens said of metaphor, it engages with the ‘primary high noon of being’.


Incompleteness and Infallibility

I want to assert a principle that seems to govern education ‘reform.’ I will call it the General Incompleteness Theorem (GIT1). It says

Any organization’s proposal for education reform will tend to be incomplete, reductionist or tendentious—possibly all three.

This principle is meant to be not cynical but cautionary: people who keep it in mind when examining reform proposals should be asking themselves

•       Where are the unexamined assumptions?

•       Where are the untested claims?

•       Where are the ignored counterarguments?

•       Where are the reductionist ideas?

•       Where is the realistic examination of who stands to gain?

•       What is the (not-so-)hidden agenda?

•       Where are the booby traps and land mines?

This principle sometimes works in destructive tandem with another, which we may call the General Infallibility Theorem (GIT2), which states that

An educational leader or organization never admits errors or mistakes.

Call this terrible tandem GIT2 or GIT Squared.

Some things are pure GIT2.The US Federal education policy is a good example. The US Congress foolishly passed No Child Left Behind (NCLB) by using wishful and magical thinking. When it proved unworkable, the Department of Education granted waivers with the onerous requirement attached that a second program, Race to the Top (RAT), should replace it. Now the mess is in the hands of the states under Every Child Succeeds (ESS) and a badly implemented Common Core. Nowhere in all this capricious presto change-o is any admission that any of it was badly conceived, badly executed, badly monitored, and badly measured. Only mediocre results persist.

Other things dabble a bit in GIT. A paper was published recently suggesting that behavioral science could lower the freshman-year dropout rate at four-year colleges. Now, when I hear behavioral science promoted, I think of a joke about two behaviorists having sexual intercourse. After they finish, one says to the other, ‘You enjoyed that a lot. How did I like it?’

The joke is on behaviorist reductionism, but more seriously, the problem the paper proposes solving[1] can be handled better using another approach, which I have written about. The problem is that doing so would conflict with easy assumptions about what high school and university entail on students and teachers alike.

Let me end with my possibly unique case of an education organization admitting error. It was the University of Virginia’s Board of Visitors admitting that they had been wrong to fire the university president and reinstating her. The admission had the effect not just of restoring the president but also of ending an educationist wild goose chase at its outset before it could cause too much damage.

The remedies are humility, good sense, a keen eye for the whole, and a lively realization that education is by and for human beings.

[1] p. 33


Say No to Mutant Schools

Much is made in fashionable school-chatter of the saving power of mutation. In particular, this chatter takes pseudo-Darwinism one step further by asserting the power of mutation to adapt not just to the present, as the social ‘Darwinists’ modestly proposed, but also to the future. Of course it isn’t called mutation but rather something upliftingly paradoxical like ‘creative disruption.’

The most appalling educationist mutagen I have read about recently is the ‘Director of Education’ at a San Francisco-based chain of for-profit schools. In a posting a couple of months back I criticized this chain, but there is more to say, though it is hard to know what to say first. Should I mention the deployment of Orwellian cameras in all classrooms? The bureaucratic burdens imposed on teachers? The constructivism?

I think I’ll let the Prime Mutagen begin for herself: ‘We encourage our members of staff to express their pain points…” I am deeply disquieted by a list of staff desiderata that begins with ‘expressing pain’, particularly when it strongly implies that the pain has no treatment. The list goes on to include some action-clichés for teachers and ends with this bizarre and creepy promise: ‘We know we are going to iterate quickly.’ Taken precisely, this statement is meaningless in its context, for (re)iteration is saying something (again and again). She must mean, ‘We will mutate quickly’. Either she is talking baloney or she is promising that whatever we thought her schools were, they would not be that in, say, a year’s time. How reassuring to parents, on top of surveillance and constructivism! By contrast, she asserts, ‘[o]ther schools tend to move in geologic time’. This is evidently meant to be a criticism of schools that retain their identity instead of shedding it like a snake its skin or a mutant its genes.

It may be worth re-iterating some countervailing values to be sought in schools.

1. Teach subjects. That seems obvious, but there is no reason to think that in a constructivist environment that is what will happen. By contrast, since a subject is a constellation of facts and ideas seen in the light of some unifying factors, it implies that the material can be approached both systematically and intuitively. It allows students to absorb the ways in which consecutive, analytical and synthetic thought takes place and to try those ways themselves. If after some years of training in a discipline a student wants to step out of the disciplinary matrix, it can happen in what one hopes will be a thoughtful way.

2. Respect both Continuity and Contiguity. William James thought that attention shifted via these two means of association. Continuity makes associations on the basis of rational connections between things encountered or handled in consecutive ways. Contiguity’s connections are more serendipitous and startling, and the best way of judging them is the pragmatic test: what follows from them? The best ones are fruitful. The danger in emphasizing contiguity is the danger of getting lost in rabbit holes or of developing garbage-heap minds like that of Borges’s Funes the Memorious. One mark of a good teacher is the ability to get these modes of attention to complement each other, and one mark of a good school is the readiness to let him or her do so.

3. Think teleologically. It helps in setting a course to know what place you want to reach, what state you want to attain, or what purposes you want to serve. These include ethical purposes. These should be expressible in language that Orwell would welcome reading rather than Newspeak. There should be some freedom in how to get there, though perhaps how much is a judgment call.

4. Avoid ‘disengagement contracts’. This expression I get from a BBC report on British university education, though the phenomenon it names can be found in the US. The two ‘parties’ tacitly agree to something like this: you will allow me to disengage from my teaching and setting and marking of tasks so I can pursue the kind of ‘research’ that will put me on a tenure track or get me a prestigious chair. I in turn will let you disengage from learning through imbecile ‘assignments’ so you can have fun, find yourselves, and still gain a credential. During my own university career, ‘gut’ courses like Professor D’s at Teachers College were regarded as rarities, and even Professor D eventually stopped letting students set their own grades. How many Professor D’s would we find now? In the lower-school version tenure and research do not loom so large but many other features are the same.

5. Let the education be primarily philanthropic. The profit motive has no business in education because someone will get short shrift if (increases in) earnings are threatened. What is more, there should be a compelling state interest in seeing that education remains cheap. Scotland, a country of about five million people, has twenty universities, which charge no tuition to Scots. What is more, Scottish students who borrow for their non-tuition expenses pay back their loans based on how much they earn, not how much they borrow, with no interest penalty for low earners. Alex Salmond, the former Scottish First Minister, put the philanthropic principle graphically: ‘Rocks would melt in the sun[1]’ before he would consider introducing tuition fees.

[1] And remember that this is Scottish sun.


Life and Limb for Learning

This weekend a cousin of mine is taking his boys on the hike up Half Dome in Yosemite, about thirty-four years after I took him and his brother there. The last part of the Half Dome Trail is set on the rock face, where stanchioned cables are laid on in the summer to help people with the ascent, which would otherwise be a class 5 climb. It is still not for the faint-hearted.

Or at least that would be the judgment of an American in his armchair. It is not the judgment of the children of the village of Atuler in Sichuan, or their parents. This village, built on a mountaintop, is accessible to the ‘neighborhood school’ only via an 800-meter rock face that is climbed or descended using vine ladders and some free climbing. (Read about and see pictures of this hair-raising school commute here.) To put these children’s challenge in perspective, remember that the Half Dome cables go for only 120 meters, the prominence of Half Dome is about 400 meters, and the face of El Capitan itself is 900 meters high.

The reaction of foreign media was mainly tongue-clucking at the primitive conditions in which many rural Chinese lead their lives, as indeed those conditions deserve (and would deserve in other countries where the poor are left behind). Strangely, no one mentioned the fact that was immediately evident to me: the people of Atuler must attach great value to education—so much as to risk life and limb for it.



The Boredom Machine

When I was younger, newer to teaching, and more foolish, I imposed structural and rhetorical formulae on my students’ writing. Doing so turned out to be a mistake. My less secure students made some unremarkable gains, but my more accomplished ones had no outlet for their urge to let their writing be shaped by their topic and its ad hoc demands. At one point I shared a good essay by one of my students with the class. A bright and contentious student asserted that it was ‘a bit heavy on its feet’. His own writing was lively but amorphous, and I had criticized him for that latter quality.

This student decided to produce as his next essay a satire of the plodding sort of essay he disapproved of. Everything followed the formula, but it was the most boring piece he had ever written for me. I am (somewhat grudgingly) grateful to him for a lesson learned.

Some years later I had another student, JM, one of the best writers I had ever taught. In those halcyon days before bogus ‘value’-‘added’ ‘metrics’ we used a home-grown writing assessment to judge (not measure) our students’ writing (but not their teachers’ teaching). It gave a once-off reading of each student, which we shared with students and parents hedged about with qualifiers[1]. Now, JM was the only student to whom we had ever given full marks on his writing assessment, and he got full marks every time he took it.

Our class was studying Moby-Dick, and so I shared with my students an extract from D H Lawrence’s brilliant but idiosyncratic essay on the book—an essay widely said to have (re-)established its literary reputation. JM was enchanted, so much so that for his next writing assignment he tried imitating Lawrence’s manner. The result was first-rate. Then came the inevitable question: ‘What would happen if I wrote like this for the IB exam?’ I told him that he ought to write more conventionally for the exam but that he was welcome to make stylistic experimentations when he wrote for me. That was the point at which I think he was lost to literature.

It is in light of experiences like these that I began to resist formulaic instruction in writing. Fortification of that resistance came, as it often did for me, from Jacques Barzun. In an interview of him conducted near the end of his very long life, he asserted, in connection with the ‘writing process’, that ‘all systematic devices for generating good writing are a mistake’. While I could see an exception to Barzun’s dictum made for young students who do not know how to think consecutively or argue persuasively, such devices should be cast off like training wheels from a bicycle or a cast from a broken arm.

What should replace such devices is what Barzun called ‘perpetual discretion’, the power of constantly discerning where the individual student is and what he or she needs. Unfortunately, the conditions in which an institution can support teachers in the exercise of this power are growing harder to find: small classes, support of good writing across the curriculum, and freedom from baleful systematic and bureaucratic requirements. It also helps to hire and support teachers who are intellectually agile.

A moment’s thought will show that this kind of subtlety is beyond systematic and ‘algorithmic’ handling.

But subtlety and discretion are not where we are going. On the contrary, many schools are adopting such writing ‘aids’ as the Jane Schaffer Method, whose strictures are likely to produce essays like my subtle student’s parody and to forestall any student like JM. Now, it is possible that in some middle-school or remedial settings, that parody would be a non-parodic step forward, but it is hard to see how such rigidity could characterize the teaching of writing in secondary schools whose students are said to be approaching college-readiness.

Some of my ToK students will shortly be reading chapter 8 of Stephen Jay Gould’s The Panda’s Thumb. (I should say before discussing that reading that Gould’s writing is exceptionally good, as the IB program recognizes by placing him on the Prescribed List of Authors for its two English courses, including the literature course.) In this chapter Gould examines the question of the level at which natural selection works, offering his own thesis and rejecting two others.  He ends with a synthesis in which he condemns the ‘scientific’ doctrines of atomism and reductionism—the belief that ‘wholes should be understood by decomposition into “basic” units [and] the idea that the properties of microscopic units can generate and explain the behavior of macroscopic results.’

In connection with the subject of this posting the first thing to be said about this excellent chapter is that it in no way and at no point conforms to the requirements of the Jane Schaffer Method, or indeed any method, including methods propounded for the reporting of education research. It is agile and limber, adapting itself to the needs of each part of the argument as they come up, subtly laying the groundwork for his concluding synthesis.

But the second is that atomism and reductionism are dangerous to the teaching of writing too, and for reasons that are not too dissimilar to what makes them objectionable in science. The very model of atomistic and reductionist instruction in writing turns out to be the Jane Schaffer Method, together with other ‘formulaic’ patterns and ‘systematic devices’.

We don’t expect seventeen-year-olds to be dependent on training wheels on their bicycles. Why should we allow them such aids in their writing?

[1] One year one of the classes threw the test because of a grievance. Did that make them bad writers or us bad teachers? VAM has an answer, and it is wrong.


A List of Poems

Since I published it nearly five years ago, my posting ‘Shéer Plód Makes Plough Down Sillion Shine’ has remained one of my most popular. My readers may also know that in eulogizing the late Seamus Heaney I commended his and Ted Hughes’ anthology The Rattle Bag. Here I share a list of poems from the anthology along with a few comments on each.  I’m keeping them in the alphabetical order in which they appear there. My object is first to suggest what can make them accessible to a high-school student. as well as give guidance for understanding. At this age they don’t need either to be freighted with ‘interpitations’, especially found ones,  or left to indulge untrammeled reader response. You must, please, hand out or display the poem and treat it at least for a while before they can go to the internet to look it up, thereby losing the opportunity to meet it on its own terms without mediation.

The Artist by William Carlos Williams. Students should be open to the possibility that a poem can be funny in a goofy way, but still have a point.  The attractive pleasure is in the unfolding of the poem line by line. When you read it aloud you should pace it so that there is a pause or vocal turn to signify each line as it ends.  If you can do an entrechat, so much the better! (I am prose in motion, but on occasion I have been known to ‘execute’ an entrechat.) A question to ask: Why might Williams want his artist/dancer to be an ordinary hairy guy on the porch instead of a ripped and nicely barbered dancer on a stage? But don’t labor any ‘interpitation’.

Beeny Cliff by Thomas Hardy. This is a poem for a bright group that is willing to do some digging to explain bits like ‘purples prinked the main’.  The poem is written in fourteeners, which your students may appreciate as an alternative to the usual meters whose names are Greek to them. The description of the setting is vivid though written in strange words. What do the strange words do for the poem? The situation is that the speaker reminisces about the times he spent here with his beloved. Question: why might the speaker have said ‘—elsewhere—‘ in line 14 instead of being exact?

Binsey Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins.  In this poem the speaker expresses his sadness that a favorite stand of trees has been chopped down. When you read this poem aloud you should invest the lines with emotion when they call for it. You should also emphasize the shifting rhythms and use them to help the lines reveal their meaning (e.g., line 3). If you can read line 8 fluently, your students will appreciate it. You may need to practice it several  times. When you get to ‘this sleek and seeing ball’, stress this and point to your eye. You can explain the image by saying that the globe is put out by digging and hacking the way an eyeball is put out by a pinprick. The ending should be soft and regretful in the repetitions. It is both a strongly poetic and a strongly felt poem, and though its strangeness may take some getting used to or make it hard to get completely, its way of conveying sadness that something we love has been ruined is accessible to anyone.

Cocaine Lil and Morphine Sue, written anonymously. The strong rhythm is alluring, as are the repetition and the characters with drugs as part of their names. Cocaine Lil overdoses and dies at a ‘snow party’, and her epitaph ends the poem in a readily understandable way. Students who fear that poems have ‘hidden meanings’ will be gratified by the accessibility of this poem.

Earthy Anecdote by Wallace Stevens. It is best not to lead your class into one of the tar-pits of interpretation that seem to surround this poem, even against Stevens’s stated aversion to such treatment. I think it is perfectly fine to see the firecat as a firecat and not ‘the Sisyphean plight of the individual’, as one tar pit rather improbably has it. When reading aloud, emphasize the o sounds in ‘over Oklahoma’ and let the short a sounds sound very flat. Let the line endings help shape the action of the poem, and let lines 6 – 13 strongly echo each other in sound and intonation. Let lines 17 & 18 pause for a windup before springing to ‘bristle in the way’. If your class insist on a meaning, ask, ‘Is the firecat a kind of cat or a kind of fire?’ but I like it just to be itself. Let the clattering music and the danger and menace of the firecat be enough.

The Flower-Fed Buffalos by Vachel Lindsay. This elegy for the vanished buffalo and native Americans of the plains is highly accessible. The ballad meter or common meter is strong, as is the rhythmic shift in lines 11 – 12. Reading it aloud should lead to those lines as a climax, followed by the inclusion of names of plains peoples and the softly repeated ‘lying low’. The poem’s song-likeness should be evident in a practiced reading aloud, including the cadential ‘lying low’.

Buffalo from Hunter poems of the Yoruba. This poem establishes the power and deadly menace of the Cape buffalo of Africa in a series of vivid images and metaphors as well as a small narrative. Some of the descriptions seem hyperbolic, but we must remember that in Frank O’Hara’s story ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ the buffalo is the next-most dangerous game.  Read it to include line endings, and give it a wide-eyed sound.

Little Fish by D. H. Lawrence. This poem, over almost before it begins, needs a well-paced reading that emphasizes line endings and the repetition of ‘in the sea’. Lawrence says what he means plainly, quickly, and simply. Maybe you should ask students if they hear any implied contrast with other life forms on the land.

maggie and millie and molly and mae by e. e. cummings. The reading should be expressive of the feeling in each stanza/couplet and should emphasize the strong rhythm. The rhyme of ‘troubles,and’ and ‘bubbles,and’  can be handled with a slight pause afterwards. The students should try to explain and justify what the ‘horrible thing’ in lines 7 – 8 is. (Possible answers include a crab or a sideways-washing wave passing over the sand.) How can we tell what kind of self each of the girls finds from what object she ‘finds in the sea’?

Mushrooms by Sylvia Plath. A good example of syllabic verse, its speakers are mushrooms growing. The reading should heed the line endings and sound as if the poem is growing as the mushrooms do, bit by relentless bit. It should sound amazing in a low-key way as it says, ‘We / Diet on water, / On crumbs of shadow’. It is possible that students will find it goofy, like ‘Attack of the Killer Tomatoes,’ but after a laugh, encourage them to explore why it is not goofy.

A Narrow Fellow in the Grass by Emily Dickinson. It is surprising how many of your students will not recognize that the subject of this poem is a snake. Its identity can be handled like a riddle. They will hear the common meter, but they may be puzzled by slant rhymes, which you could explain. Explore how the speaker conveys the strangeness of the snake and his dread of it. (Yes, the speaker, unlike Dickinson, is a man.)

Now entertain conjecture of a time by Shakespeare. This wonderfully vivid narrative about the English camp the night before the battle of Agincourt takes a lot of preparation, including some unexpected or arcane imagery. For example, ‘paly flames’ are not pale, they are like heraldic pales through which other things can be seen. The best way to read this aloud is to turn on the DVD player to the beginning of Act IV in Kenneth Branagh’s movie version of Henry V, where Sir Derek Jacobi gives the speech. The combination of activity and fear is counterbalanced by ‘a little touch of Harry in the night’, just what is needed before the ‘vile and ragged foils’ meet the heavily armored French knights. Students may not realise that the lightly armored English were considered vile by the chivalrous French with their heavy-plated armor, which is why the ‘vile and ragged foils’ are a synecdoche for the English army. Mention that Shakespeare’s special effect is words, and hope that your students consider what you say.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe and The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd by Sir Walter Raleigh. This pair of poems is fun because one of them answers the other, but it also allows us to distinguish between the way each of the speakers conveys what is important to him or her, and how he or she thinks. The shepherd is very concrete and in the moment; the nymph, thoughtful, keen and funny in a knowing way.

A Poison Tree by William Blake. The poem is so seemingly plain and straightforward that its figurative ingenuity can be overlooked (e.g., ‘I water’d it in fears, / Night and morning with my tears; / And I sunned it with smiles, / And with soft deceitful wiles’). Reading it aloud with an emphasis on the rhymes and line endings without singsong is possible but takes practice. It takes some thought to decide how to read the final couplet aloud. One point of discussion: What exactly has the speaker admitted doing?

The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter by Ezra Pound. It might be interesting or mind-expanding to discuss with your class what makes this poem poetic. At first many students will answer, ‘nothing’, but eventually they may admit that the descriptions are very clear, the place-names sound exotic or remarkable, the wife’s character develops as the stanzas unfold, and the free-verse lines (and their endings) help us see and hear how the narrative should go forward.

Sea Weed by D. H. Lawrence. This short poem is good at sounding like what it describes. Ask students to explain what we know about the seaweed from rhythm and sound as well as from description.

‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone’ by W.  H. Auden. This poem is a highly accessible expression of grief at loss and tribute to the loved one. Read it aloud with the rhymes and line endings standing out. Ask the students how the poem is divided dramatically, and why it is divided so.

When I Set Out for Lyonesse by Thomas Hardy. As is usual with Hardy, this poem contains some hard words that need explaining. The startling thing about it is how much repetition it contains without sounding repetitive. A good reading will acknowledge the musicality of the repetition while laying discreet emphasis on the non-repeating lines. After they get the poem and have heard it, ask them whether you would be right to say that the speaker is King Arthur and have them defend their answers. Kenneth Koch said that a poem says what it says and suggests what it suggests. How does this poem balance direct statement and suggestion?

You will have noticed how important I believe good reading aloud is. To me, studying poetry without hearing it is like studying movies with the sound turned off.  (Philip Larkin would disagree, but his view is, I think, exceptional.) You will also have noticed a mixture of styles and types. My hope is that the students will encounter a variety of what Koch calls poetry’s ‘attractive pleasures’ and not just their meaning.