Blogging a dead horse?

Dear blogfinder,


I am an teacher lost in a small world of fanciful ideals, in a village in Italy. I am writing this blog on the incentive of a friend who knows me only too well. She has encouraged me to write for fear that the fleeting blizzard of moments which passes endlessly by me will be lost forever lest it be recorded soon. As an English teacher, every day brings a different experience of life, of literature, to feed upon memories and awareness. I don't have the chance to sit on my laurels in what I do. I have to keep up with the sudden changes of identity my students go through. At least I would like to think I do.

So Radhika, who will also be writing here, pushed me to write. I chose the title of this post because I have the sinking sensation there is little left for me to say about literature. After all, so many shelves have been filled with books about literature; what it is and what it aims to be. Why keep at it? According to Roland Barthes, the author is dead. Why torture the poor deceased carcass?

Because it is not the horse that is of interest, it is its rider. If I am recording my own experiences as a literature and Theory of Knowledge teacher, it's because there are plenty of people out there ready to ride (wride? write?) the same horse, taking the same old journeys. Like children riding poneys on a beach, perhaps. For the poor guy who drags the poneys back and forth across the beach all day long, it's not a very novel experience. But if he taps into the joy and novelty the children feel, it could be fascinating. If my students can enjoy a new journey, then this is what I hope to tap into.

My students were responding to Translations by Brian Friel today. They were laughing at the scene in Act 2 scene 2 where Yolland and Maire are conveying their love for each other, even though they can't understand the other's language. It was a little ridiculous reading this scene aloud in class, as the students found the idea simplistic, and were skeptical regarding its literary merits. But why?

I suppose it's obvious in a school which boasts 83 nationalities that there are some things which are communicable via spoken language and many others which rely on all the other ways in which we communicate. Perhaps they didn't need Brian Friel to teach them this. Perhaps the Irish playwright would have had a stronger effect on students who had never been away from home... Or perhaps my class was on a bad day.

Either way, I feel that somehow this scene held its meaning in spite of the students' skepticism. Cynical though they may be, they have experienced these moments of mysterious communication, where language barriers dissipate unheeded, and one can magically see the other's meaning. Sometimes in spite of oneself. The play is set in 19th century Ireland, in a small village where Irish is the only language spoken. Maire is a milkmaid who speaks no English, but hopes for a change in her life when she is awestruck by an enthusiastic English soldier. He, of course, speaks only English.

Maire says to Yolland in this scene "Don't speak - I know what you are saying" and Yolland - the English soldier come to rename Irish towns into English - repeats this exact phrase a few lines later. Their attraction is conveyed in a dialogue where neither can understand the other's words, but yet they communicate in this way. I left the students with the thought that Friel is conveying the ultimate strength of translation, outside actual language... translating genuine emotion rather than words.

I would like to think that this little bubble in Duino, on the Adriatic coast, will leave me the chance to translate much of what I experience, the singular meanings I ponder here, to a few readers. Just like Friel's characters, I may not be able to get across what I say immediately, but through some strange and wonderful process, perhaps it's possible. Even if the horse is dead, language can always find other means of transport to take meaning to its rightful place.

Time's up, and its past my teacherly bedtime.

A la prochaine...

c