Culturally Relative

                 I found the question of what cultural criticism is the most interesting part of this section of the book. I am guilty, when considering culture, to think of the capital C version. When someone uses the word culture, one tends to think of the highbrow pursuits of elitists, or those well endowed with wealth and free time. I immediately think of aged classical music and dusty old tomes being read aloud in vast family libraries where servants pour drinks and do their best to blend in with the gilded furniture. It is nice to think of cultural critics more as being activists rather than upholders of the status quo.

                Another thing I found amusing was that the writer acknowledged universities as being the true enemies of this kind of cultural progression. He says "that is where the old definitions of culture as high culture (and as something formed, finished, and canonized) have been most vigorously preserved, defended, and reinforced." (414). The writer goes on to explain how the departmental structures within  universities create artificial boundaries between the arts and those accepted areas of study, such as history, sociology, and the sciences. Sitting in a university myself, I can see how this departmental layering could get in the way of encouraging open and interpretive thought.

                I do, however, think there is a danger in trying to abolish all the lines we draw between areas of study, and even areas of value. Great things inevitably get lost along the way as the arc of time takes us further and further away from our roots. I think it often proves valuable and rewarding to willfully immerse yourself in the time and place in which some product of creativity emerged, without always contrasting things with your own experience and perspective.    

Wuthering

          First of all, as a kind of experiment of narration, the construction of the novel is interesting. However, I feel no love for the kind of narrative weaving that is taking place in the work. The story seems told in a deliberately confusing and disjointed way, and while this may have been a novel (no pun intended) idea in that era, it fails to be anything but annoying to me as a reader. Perhaps it just isn't my cup of tea. I prefer sweeping epics and focused narration. Wuthering Heights reads to me like the frenzied babblings of a schizophrenic. The lack of clear demarcation between passages intended to be read as happening in the present and those that happened in the past through various journal entries is as confusing as it is distancing.  

         
          Last semester I read The House of the Seven Gables, a piece of Gothic writing by Hawthorne, and while I very much enjoyed his prose, all through the novel I kept waiting for something interesting to happen. Nothing did. We simply follow a few characters' meandering thought processes, most of them of a markedly depressing nature, until we arrive at the end, which is a sort of subdued happily ever after moment. I felt strung along, because some of the possible plot lines I mistakenly saw developing into something more fantastic than was intended. I am relating this story because the writing and the subjects of the writing seem to me very much in common. Halfway through and I'm expecting something to happen, but page after page brings me only boredom.

          I think in large part there is a generational gap, but there is also a gaping rift of taste and preference present which prevents me from connecting with the book and its characters. I hope to be able to get into it at some point, but I think my complaints may be too many to overcome.   

Bibliophilia

I haven't always loved books. I haven't always kept my collection of individual books as I keep them now. Each one bears a memory and a purpose. My collection grows with each purchase. Each addition to my mental and physical bookshelf is a kind of stock to be traded and valued differently. I own books about the nature of consciousness, the human animal, morality, tragedy. I have books that expound upon huge fictitious worlds, some of which include every manner of supernatural being you might be pressed to think of. I also have books on argumentation, philosophy, pop culture and literary analysis. Books of poetry (John Keats being my favorite) and works by the playwright Christopher Marlowe hold a special place on my shelves. The thought of having to abandon all these is an unpleasant one.

Manguel offers similar thoughts on page 237 of the book, where he speaks about his hesitance to part with his personal library. We give ourselves various reasons, but ultimately for me it is about possession. I simply want to keep these books. They are pieces of my identity, as visible in my dealings with people as they are on my shelves. They offer physical reminders of where I have been, and where I am going. My ever growing library is something of a legacy which will pass from me and hopefully continue, long after I am gone.