Dr. Shaw asks the class what the first reading strategy listed on the syllabus is, and receives thirty-five blank stares. Then Servat, the only student who bothered to print out the syllabus, begins searching through her notebook. She momentarily answers, “We are supposed to note the reading assignment’s genre.”
“Right, and what is genre?”
Travis, with a vague feeling of wanting to give a correct answer after that last exchange, felt himself on firm ground with this. “Genre is the kind of literature that a text is, like whether it’s a poem or a novel.”
“Exactly,” replies Dr. Shaw. “Why is it important to know the genre?”
Again, silence.
Dr. Shaw asks another question. “If I begin a story with ‘once upon a time,’ what genre is it?”
Crystal answers, “A fairy tale.” And the whole class agrees.
“And what does that tell us about how to interpret the story?”
Matthew says. “We know it’s just a made-up story.”
“Right, if the author is purposefully vague about the time of the setting, a perceptive reader knows that the events never really happened at all. Does that mean that the fairy tale isn’t true?”
Rachel, a bit surprised at such an easy question, responds with a quick, “Of course not, it’s just fiction.”
The teacher stops to consider a change in the conversational course, then she says, “On the first day of class, I asked you all to list five books you’ve read since the eighth grade that you enjoyed. From those lists I know that most of you have read a Harry Potter book, either The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings, and more than one of Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia—all fiction. So, did you see anything true about real English boarding school experiences from reading about Hogwarts? Did you recognize anything true in Bilbo Baggins’s tension between the comfortable and the adventurous? Did you notice anything true about Jesus of Nazareth from reading about Aslan? . . . I suggest that often works of fiction are unconcerned about the truth of their facts, but that they are very concerned about the truth of ideas.”
Travis announced, “I don’t believe there is such a thing as the truth of ideas; the only kind of truth is truth about verifiable, empirical facts.”
“I am sure, Travis, that the many people in our culture agree with you about that, or that, at least, they unthinkingly presuppose it in their daily decisions. But such a generalization is not true of the ancient cultures we will read in this class. And I am asking you to please read and interpret the literature according to its literary and cultural context, as best you can, before you make judgments upon it. I am not asking you to agree with anything, but only to withhold your opinion of the text until you have been careful about the question, ‘What did it mean to them?’”
Travis’s “I’ll try” had a ring of sincerity.
“Thank you. That is all I ask . . . Now returning to our question of genre, I maintain that knowing the genre of a text arms us with help for our interpretation. My friend in California, Tremper Longman, uses a story to illustrate this idea. Who has read a work in the genre murder mystery?” Many heads nod. “Who are some of the genre’s authors?”
“Agatha Christie,” came a girl’s voice from the back of the room.
“James Patterson,” said Jason.
“Sue Grafton,” chimed in someone by the window.
“Excellent examples—Now if I told you the title of this text is Murder at Marplethorp, what genre is it?”
“A Murder Mystery,” a chorus responds.
“Right, this is how the story begins:
The clock on the mantelpiece said ten-thirty, but someone had suggested recently that the clock was wrong. As the figure of the dead woman lay on the bed in the front room, a no less silent figure glided rapidly from the house. The only sounds to be heard were the ticking of the clock and the loud wailing of an infant.2
“So, let’s interpret this opening passage as though, by genre, it’s a murder mystery. Who is the dead woman and how did she die?”
Amy says, “She is the murder victim; somebody killed her.” The entire class agrees.
The teacher’s next question is, “Who is the silent figure gliding from the house?”
Andrew offers, “That is the murderer making his escape. The whole point of the book is to figure out who he is.” Again, universal agreement.
“Next interpretive question—Why is the infant crying?”
Crystal ventures, “The woman was a mother. Her baby was awakened by the violent murder, and, since the mother is dead, she isn’t taking care of her child.” Everybody thinks the same.
“Why is the clock important?”
Travis offers, “The clock is telling us when the woman died. The first fact a detective will want to establish is time of death. For example, every suspect’s alibi depends on it.” Nobody disagrees.
“You are all excellent interpreters of murder mysteries. Have any of you ever read a biography?” Most heads nod. “What does a reader expect from a generic biography?”
Matthew answers, “It’s going to tell the true story of some famous person’s life. The reader tries to see how the person’s life experiences influenced him or her.”
“Exactly. I am now going to read the opening of a biography entitled The Personal History of David Marplethorp:
The clock on the mantelpiece said ten-thirty, but someone had suggested recently that the clock was wrong. As the figure of the dead woman lay on the bed in the front room, a no less silent figure glided rapidly from the house. The only sounds to be heard were the ticking of the clock and the loud wailing of an infant.”
Many smiles reveal that many students are seeing how this line of questioning will go. Dr. Shaw asks the same questions of the same text. “Who is the dead woman and how did she die?”
Rachel, who had read many biographies, answers, “She is the mother of David Marplethorp, and she died in childbirth. Biographies usually begin with a birth.”
“Who is the silent figure gliding from the house?”
Jason thinks it is the grief-stricken midwife, who has failed in her attempt to save the mother. Nodding heads confirm his interpretation.
“Why is the infant crying?”
Rachel again—“The baby is David Marplethorp, and he’s crying for his mother. Losing a mother at birth is an extraordinarily important fact about a childhood. That grief won’t go away; nor will it be easy to identify. It will have a huge influence on his life.”
“That it will. Why is the clock important?”
Rachel, the future nurse, again—“It establishes time of birth.”
