The Fourth Part of Chapter 1: Encounter

Malcolm, Thanh Pho and Eric were three university students from Kitchener on a weekend trip to Montréal, and they had just ordered their dinners at a restaurant that, while not seedy, was well within their budgets: poutine for Malcolm, a quarter chicken for Eric and a decadent sounding sandwich for Thanh Pho. Malcolm was decidedly unconcerned with such matters as his health: he intended to enjoy himself, and anyways, poutine wasn’t a heart attack in a bowl; that could only happen after a lifetime of unhealthy overindulgence.

Thanh Pho was continuing a conversation that he and Malcolm had started outside: “You see, my passion for literature derives from my experiences, and it’s sad hearing people say that literature is irrelevant.”

Malcolm said, “But it is irrelevant, or at least its study.”

“I take it that you’re an intelligent person, so I find it disheartening that you take such an unenlightened pre-renaissance view of the arts. You see, English promotes the flow of arts, while economics promotes the flow of charts.”

“That hasn’t been my experience. For me, English class in high school promoted the flow of endless headaches.”

There was a pause as the flow of conversation from a nearby table was overheard:

“You know what I would like to do this summer, James? I want to go to Halifax,”

“Me too, Clarissa darling. I went there once as a child, and I would love to return,”

The couple stared into each other’s eyes lovingly, as the animated conversation of the young trio two tables down reached their ears. James could recall when he was their age, about ten years before, and remembered that all of his impassioned discussions were on the relative merits of the random walk model in time series forecasting; given, it was a rather arcane subject, but still afforded the opportunity for much self-deprecating humour.

Malcolm regarded the couple momentarily, wishing he could find a girlfriend.

“But you see, Mac, you’re a cold fish; in my case, the study of literature arouses my passions,” responded Thanh Pho. Eric, rather than debate the merits of studying English literature, was enjoying his chicken.

“Women arouse my passions. Anyways, I think of literature the same way that I think of dissection in biology class. It’s very interesting for those involved, but it always entailed the death of the animal. That’s what studying Fifth Business and Shakespeare did to those works for me; had I not studied them in high school, I am sure I would have appreciated Davies’ quick wit, and I would have laughed gaily all through productions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Now, however, all I can think of is the theme of religiosity over materialism, or the role of Titania and Oberon as holding a mirror to more earthly love affairs. That’s what the study of literature does. It saps the soul out of otherwise vibrant works.”

“But the study of literature has taught me so many things, and I don’t think it should be used simply for entertainment, as you postulate; for instance, it has given me wit, it’s the source of culture, it promotes the flow of human creativity, it’s the way in which humans relate to each other, there’s just so much; and you denigrate it? Why? Let me understand you,”

“That’s not the case; you see, economics provides a view of the world that no other field of study could possibly explain; it illuminates those parts of human behaviour not governed by emotional attachment or sentiment; for us it is strictly rational, if only in theory. The study of literature, on the other hand, obfuscates; do you know how many standards by which teachers––who always seem to have it in for you––may judge you? I am pretty much convinced that the kind English teacher who always shows compassion to their students is confined to fiction.”

“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever found that. English has so many real-world applications. Consider journalism; while my grammar isn’t the best, I have considerable verbal flair. I expostulate to you that, well, it’s unenlightened to disparage literature, the study of literature and a literary canon; you’re missing the point; how many experiences are covered by economics? Two: buying and selling. How many experiences does literature cover? There’s the panoply, there’s everything, and I’m happy to say that I’m living out your fictions.”

“They gave you flair but not grammar? What kind of an education is that? There is still, however, the issue of all English teachers being horrible; in all my years of schooling, I have never had a good English teacher, not one; either they were too demanding and thought they were your only teacher, or they were disorganised, or they were rude, or they were horribly sexist, or all of the above,”

“Horribly sexist men?”

“No, horribly sexist women,”

“I am sorry that you have never had a good English teacher; I find you to be something of a panjandrum, someone without sight. And I think your experiences with English teachers is indicative of the many standards used, but you learn them,”

“That’s what’s wrong with it,”

“What about poetry? How do you find poetry; for me, it speaks of the soul, it’s very visceral,”

“It’s endlessly fascinating how something so visceral, so emotional and full of life can be dried up into a husk; that’s what English class did to poetry, through endless analyses, rather than simply saying ‘isn’t that beautiful’ and leaving it at that; it’s the same way that a butterfly is beautiful.”

“Well, that’s the one area where teachers always fall down; they can never seem to get it right, and I’ll admit that high school teachers don’t do it well. But do you listen to music, songs? That’s poetry. Life is poetry, poetry is song, poetry is sunshine, and poetry is all things lovely,”

“Poetry is that which gives me cramps,”

“How can you be so dismissive of the entire literary canon?”

“I have sight, and I could see, through iteration, that there is simply no such thing as a good English teacher. That’s not merely a statistical aberration, you know. That all of my English teachers have been judgmental and unkind demonstrates a self-selection bias in which the ones who believe in the milk of human kindness are weeded out by the back-scratching and shameless flattery that is necessary to do well in it. And incidentally, I’m not dismissive of the literary canon; I love to read good books; rather, I have had teachers who taught me not literature, but to hate literature.”

“Have you ever taken English?”

“No; I was dissuaded by the inferior quality of my high school teachers. You?”

“Oh, yes; for me, English is the lifeblood of my academics; my raison-d’être, if you will.”

“I have always found a similar passion with economics.”

“I didn’t know there was any passion in economics classes; in my one econ class, people hardly ever raised their voice; the professor had to invite questions. It was always so dry, and so single-track; what meaning is there in utility maximisation anyways? The only thing I remember is the professor endlessly praising the market.”

“Because you weren’t paying attention?”

“No, because it was dry and un-passionate,”

“We’re passionate in a quiet kind of way,”

“I’ve noticed that we have become the opposite of quiet; perhaps we should leave Eric to enjoy his chicken,”

“Thanks,” said Eric.

“Perhaps it is time to remind you of something that Shakespeare wrote: ‘Brevity is the soul of wit.’ Maybe you should take his advice and keep your rhetoric brief, like my economics papers.”

“What? You’re so mean!”

“…And it is quite fortunate that most papers in economics are confined to only a few pages, while I hear of papers in English that exceed twenty pages on a regular basis. I might suggest, indeed, that no analytical essay need be longer than a hundred words necessary to describe the book. If they wanted a more in depth description of a novel, they would read the novel, rather than some essay produced as a make-work project.”

“They’re not make-work projects; they promote a deeper understanding of the work; essays promote the flow of ideas, the y promote a higher understanding of what the author was really intending,”

“Sometimes they run on longer than the book upon which they are making comments, accumulating like leaves on the ground in the fall. You only need to read the work; that’s what I find so annoying about published Shakespeare: there’s the play, and then there is an introduction at the front of the book, and then comments after it; they’re longer than the play itself! They form what I like to call parasitic literature: literature that’s not fiction, or non-fiction, but commentary about fiction.”

“And your objection to it is?”

“It’s uncreative,”

“Most of economics is uncreative,”

“Most of economics serves some real-world application; textual analyses of Shakespeare do not do that,”

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