In the concluding years of the 1920s, a university scholarship for studying English literature was awarded to my grandma, a tanner’s offspring. Her father, however, viewed it as trivial, believing she would simply end up wed. Known for his quick temper, she would often try to appease him. Consequently, she never attended university. This, nevertheless, did not hinder her lifelong companionship with books. When all hope was seemingly lost and my educational ability deemed ‘educationally subnormal’, it was she who honed my reading skills and kept me inundated with books.
She had an affection for hearing me recite poetry while she engaged in culinary tasks. Thus, while it was effortless during my younger years, I committed to memory her admired classics, primarily from the Victorian period – the likes of Wordsworth, Tennyson, Arnold, and Rossetti.
Whilst sitting on the stool she used to access elevated shelves, I would proclaim these pieces, as she busied herself preparing our meals.
Sadly, she passed away before witnessing the launch of my first manuscript. However, my eventual attainment of a doctorate degree in English literature brought her immense satisfaction. During my twenties, I had a sentiment of having transcended her universe. Like traversing unfamiliar galaxies she wouldn’t fathom – exploring post-colonialism, Marxism, deconstruction, New Historicism. My education taught me to critically reassess the naïveté of the Victorians and effectively place them right where they belong.
Jane Eyre, an interesting rendition of the Cinderella narrative, was nonetheless infused with racist, anti-Catholic and bourgeoisie perspectives- an understanding that was crucial to convey to students. Wordsworth’s radical use of poetic structure was commendable but for it to be deemed of value for instruction, he needed to unequivocally advocate workers’ rights and the eradication of slavery.
However, I did eventually come of age. My training equipped me to read broadly, thoroughly deliberate and be open to changing my opinions. Having grown up amidst diverse traditions and cultures, I was conscious of the fact that we are often myopic in our views.
In my teaching, I aim, I hope, to provide a perspective on literature and the world that’s less restrictive and more inclusive than the one I was taught. Yet I cannot shake the affection I have for the poetry my grandmother passed down to me, which often spring to mind over the course of a long run, during a flight, or in the middle of a dental appointment. Recently, I realised their charm resonates not in spite of their constricted world view, but rather because of it.
Books and life are complex, full of countless facets, and thankfully, our role is to interpret and ponder, rather than determine whether a book meets the criterion of the moment. Beauty isn’t a case of inclusion and exclusion—instead, it exists alongside both. We should embrace the conjunction ‘and’, rather than the slightly limiting ‘but’. The literary masterpiece, Jane Eyre is beautifully written whilst conspicuously lacking in its portrayal of class struggles. Similarly, The Prelude, with its focus on the genesis of the artist as a patriarch, is enchanting in its use of verse and simile.
The intricacies of life and art allow us to reflect, rather than judge which books meet the temporary standards. Certain matters can indeed be postponed to a future time.
Lately, I’ve been trying to substitute every ‘but’ in my thoughts and writings with ‘and’. I desire this dress and I can’t afford it. Whilst it’s an apology, it’s also, regretfully, true. Many years back, I found myself recoiling when a friend told her children, “I love you but I wish you wouldn’t do that”, as if their error somehow diminished her affection. Instead, consider “I love you and I wish you wouldn’t do that”. This approach becomes particularly helpful when empathising with others, emphasising the rudeness of phrases like “No offence but” or “I don’t mean to be racist but”. No offence and I offend, I don’t mean to be racist and I am racist.
Sometimes ‘but’ is necessary, providing a calculated counterpoint (he enjoys driving swiftly but there are children riding to school). Often, however, embracing contradictions can provide a more intriguing, wider perspective.