Mapping the novel.

Abstract

"Mapping the Novel" draws on the Freytag pyramid that plotted the course of tragedy and the loco-descriptive poem that wedded the emotional and geographic circuit. By emphasizing the novel as composed object whose component parts can be disassembled and studied, the technique can be applied chapter by chapter. The exercise shows how architecture, setting, and topography can function also as markers of emotion, psychology, and attitudes about class, gender, and nation. Finally, it amplifies the traditional literature-class methods of reading, writing, and discussion.

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Shortage of time; shortage of attention span; shortage of skills in asking difficult questions of a form so familiar to them as to seem second-nature: these are but a few of the deficits among their classroom populations instructors who teach the novel face. These laments need no rehearsal. Most instructors now recognize that discussion of a novel, whatever the course, will occur in dribs and drabs as students digest the material in carved-up chapters. The question then becomes, how do we best help students appreciate the many-storied levels on which a novel works without undermining the delight of readerly surprise or without resorting to droning lecture?

These questions have a long genealogy. Their urgency has been intensified at state universities and community colleges where, increasingly, older student populations with multiple demands on their time prevail. Even had the age of matriculation remained constant, it would have been offset by the decrease in public funding and the concomitant rise in college costs, so that many students struggle with work and families of their own as they juggle the costs of their own educations. Today, though, educators face two more stumbling blocks: both arise, I believe, from the media culture our students inhabit. Trained to be passive consumers, many students lack confidence or interest in expressing their opinions, thus hampering buoyant discussion. Worse, the cult of personality cultivated by talk shows, MTV, E, and the music and movie industries have caused our students to fixate on character: depending on their bent, what I call either the Springer or the Oprah effect. This technological pre-conditioning corresponds to the existence of mental frameworks such as those identified by Piaget, which can hamper critical thinking. As a result, what discussion does occur seldom ventures far from a kind of literary gossip about the characters' actions and attractions.

As a specialist in 18th-19th-century British literature, I wrestle to make the very remote in time and sensibility immediate and to make palpable all the possible levels of strong interest. All the lecturing in the world will not reach those students dedicated to living fully in the twenty-first century. To expand my students' horizons and to engross their minds, I have devised an exercise I call "Mapping the Novel." I believe this exercise offers a way around some of the difficulties and a way to accomplish some of the goals enumerated above. "Mapping the Novel" consists of 2a series of activities that attempt to combine the best features of cooperative and collaborative learning, often thought competing paradigms. Briefly, scholars like Ken Bruffee held cooperative learning to be teacher-governed, while collaborative learning is student-centered. Bruffee aligned cooperative learning with foundational knowledge; for him, collaborative learning focused on non-foundational critical thinking skills, and encouraged questioning of the teacher's authority. Yet of the many studies that have documented the effectiveness of these approaches in the classroom, most emphasize that merely placing students in small groups to "discuss" among themselves will not produce the positive results possible, a fact my own experience as a green teacher taught me all too well. Peer group work without a structured task and individual accountability will furnish nothing more than just another opportunity to gossip, and this time not about the characters' lives. For that reason, I structure the investigation, even though I aim not so much at foundational content as at a perceptual shift to questions of form, and despite my cherished hope that students will gain enough confidence to challenge my ideas. Using mapping as a structuring activity grows out of the Freytag pyramid, which I explain and diagram. A nineteenth-century German journalist and dramatist, Freytag drew on his experience analyzing and writing plays. The pyramid charts the streamlined progression of plot from initial difficulty or tension through complication to climax and denouement (see graphs at websites listed below). Applying the Freytag pyramid to novels teaches students to consider a novel as a composed object whose component parts one can dismantle to study their assemblage. I often find students in class relatively sophisticated if asked to analyze how music works in that way. They frequently become excited about seeing how their expertise in an extra-curricular field can contribute to their burgeoning skills as literary analysts.

A quick Internet search or review of introductory texts like that of Kelley Griffith shows that many teachers and scholars have applied Freytag's ideas to works in other genres, although they draw it in a variety of ways (Griffith 36). However, most assume that we can overlay the pyramid onto a work of fiction in an unproblematic, cohesive, linear trajectory. But this approach has limitations. It shares with Christian humanism a teleological belief whose pattern remains unwavering. Such faith in the unwavering geometry of the pyramid diminishes the instrument's capacity to register the flux and reflux of movements that swirl throughout many novels. Moreover, as I have argued elsewhere, the trajectory of the Freytag pyramid shares with theorists of desire in the novel a masculinist bias. But what I perceive as shortcomings also act as a teaching opportunity. Introducing and then debunking, gently, the majesty of grand theories has a salutary effect in the classroom. Challenging common wisdom sets a good example; it liberates students from the tyranny of experts. So I offer the students a dual set of my own theories: I share with them my conviction that each chapter contains within it, if not a mini-pyramid, then certainly some kind of movement, spatial, experiential, and emotional, whose directions can likewise be charted. I also suggest that the Freytag pyramid fails to take into account differences in patterning occasioned by differences in genre and gender. I then invite them to prove or disprove my contentions by mapping the novel. The exercise gives them an opportunity to see how theories get built and, if necessary, modified or discarded; it gives them a means to make their experience of reading concrete and visual; most deliciously, it gives them an opportunity to prove their teacher wrong.

For the purposes of illustration, I will use Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey. In a course meeting three times per week, for an hour five minutes each time, I divided the reading assignments over five meetings. The first day called for them to read Vol. I, chapters 1-9 (pp. 13-63); the second, chapters 10-15 (pp. 64-111); the third, Vol. II, chapters 1-5 (pp. 115-42); the fourth, chapters 6-9 (pp. 143-72); and the last, chapters 10-end (pp. 173-219). Like many eighteenth-century novels of manners, Northanger Abbey conceals its seriousness beneath the superficial, at least on the surface. Even by the end of the second day of reading, if they are keeping up, most students see only a trivial courtship plot, cannot detect the malignity of the Thorpes, and fail to anticipate or appreciate the sudden shift in setting, even though one such sudden shift begins the novel, let alone manage to relish the dry wit of the narrator. To counter this naivete, I introduce the Freytag pyramid on the first day of discussion, after the first segment of assigned reading. Then I ask the students to identify the unstable situation and the exposition, an idea that will be familiar to them if connected with the way it functions in film as 'back-story.' Taking each chapter read in its turn, I ask them to assess the relative importance of fairly traditional topics such as plot, individual characters, mood and atmosphere. I ask them to work individually at their desks at first. Then I break them into small groups to confer and compare their assessments. The next stage calls for them to take turns putting their opinions literally on the map (on the blackboard, white board, or flow chart) for all to see. At the beginning, these topics elicit fairly simple descriptions. Actual graphing is not yet necessary; answers can be written as lists. Some sense of charting enters in once we begin pushing the descriptions to cover movement over the chapter. Does the mood of the chapter remain uniformly dark or light, or is there some progression in either direction? Do no small defeats offset the gains? For instance, in chapter five of Volume I, Catherine Morland finally seems on an upward path: she has left home, been taken to Bath where she has been dressed and cosseted, has met a promising young man, and has befriended the daughter of her guardian's friend. If we were following the directional thrust of the pyramid, we would assume that we were on the ascent of the rising action. However, our confidence should be shaken by the narrator's delineation of incompatibility between Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe, the two elder friends:

   [Mrs. Allen] was ... never satisfied with the day unless she spent
   the chief of it by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called
   conversation, but in which there was scarcely ever any exchange of
   opinion, and not often any resemblance of subject, for Mrs.
   Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen of her
   gowns. (33)

This subtlety usually escapes students. Asked to fit this detail into their graph, they resort to a necessary re-evaluation.

Results are seldom brilliant at first. For that reason, it pays to perform the exercise over several days. After the first try, I ask students to map at home as they read the next assigned section, and to come into class prepared to return to the project. My experience has shown that students enjoy the exercise, even though they feel frustrated by their initial awkwardness, and that they actually look forward to taking another crack at it and improving. Now they become capable of noticing that the upward movement and ingenuousness of chapter 10 gets thwarted by the disappointment and disingenuousness that occur in chapter 11. We can ask more complex questions of the chart by questioning whether any correspondence exists between particular characters and particular swings, a probing that elicits the realization of the role played by the Thorpes and that enables students to read beneath their surface protestations.

Mapping begins in earnest when, to these standards of literary analysis, I add questions that seek to measure the dominant characteristic of the chapter in terms of setting. These questions are grouped as paired opposites: outer vs. inner world or social versus individual; man-made architecture vs. nature; city vs. country; inside vs. outside the main dwelling. This last category has several applications. It can refer to the space just immediately outside the house (e.g., gardens, terraces, or courtyards), as opposed to less cultivated areas of nature. For Gothic novels, or novels with Gothic elements like Northanger, inside versus outside translates to the public areas of the house or castle as opposed to the private, inner recesses. (In a pure Gothic, the inner recesses are usually some form of carceral space.) Now we can correlate mood and character against a backdrop; we can begin to ascertain whether certain settings are privileged as sites of optimism while others are associated with defeat. From these correlations, themes and sets of values will emerge. Because the students have discovered these values and themes for themselves, their findings frequently provoke their curiosity about the reasons for such conjunctions. Curiosity seeks explanation: information about the background of the novel becomes part of the process of discovery in which all participate, instead of disconnected lecture. In fact, at this point in a historical survey course, I frequently assign topics for research and let them make brief group reports back.

Even if a relatively clear topographical outline has developed by this time, the exercise can yield further treasures by helping to excavate more connotative depths. Because inside/outside treats the public/private division even within space normally conceived of as predominately private, it can be mapped vertically as well as horizontally. Upper or lower areas can then lead to consideration of class or status issues, as conveyed by the British categories upstairs/downstairs, aristocrat/peasant, etc. for novels with an international thrust; or, spread out over several countries, the map can take into account nationalistic or imperialistic ideology. No matter what the outcome decided, the exercise hooks their interest because it poses a riddle to be solved. And whether the map produced resembles a classic pattern or a more subtle and fluid set of boundaries, good discussion can be generated about the effect such a pattern has on the reader and speculation encouraged about why or even whether an author might have chosen the pattern they find. In courses able or desiring to incorporate more than reader-response and a quasi-deconstructive theory, elements of the map provide a bridge. For instance, the inner/outer world divide lends itself naturally to questions of deep psychology and thus to Freudian or post-Freudian readings. In a psychological approach, dreams form one type of boundary or liminal area; a similar, more postcolonial application can arise from discussions of the liminal space between home and raw nature. Conversely, especially for the eighteenth century, the private/public divide can introduce Habermasian notions about the creation of a public sphere and public discourse. If time gets factored into the spatial equation, narratological concerns about voice and perspective can enter in. With the use of drawing software, the exercise can be adapted for distance-learning courses, or for courses that utilize some form of web-based work through file sharing. This exercise works even better in a course featuring several novels, which would provide a miniature longitudinal study, especially if the novels selected cover a range of historical periods. But even a course on a single historical period can prompt questions about generically-determined rhythms, as it can sharpen inquiries about possible gender differences. Those teachers of survey courses might find the exercise a useful way to approach the eighteenth-century loco-descriptive poem, and a good preparation for the patterns of the longer Romantic lyric and conversation poems, as well.

Using the exercise over a stretch of classroom time accomplishes two further goals. As research on the molecular basis of learning has shown, repetition facilitates deep learning. This effect occurs because the NMDA receptors in brain nerve cells responsible for forging connective pathways to facilitate learning actually double their effectiveness when repeated association enters into play. Repetition reproduces the signals sent; the patterning unleashes more neural protein, thus enhancing the permanence of the memory laid down. Repetition enables also a more comprehensive and hence more reflective map to emerge: you have the chance truly to see whether the novel moves in a straight line from instability through denouement. To me, though, the highest pedagogical value of the exercise results from its ability to amplify the traditional literature-class methods of reading, writing, and discussion. Whether you adhere to theories that divide learning modes into three (the visual, the aural, and the kinetic), or prefer Howard Gardner's seven intelligences, mapping the novel permits you to engage those students not necessarily gifted with linguistic abilities. Making maps incorporates the talents of spatial, logical/mathematical, and kinesthetic learners. Take it one step further and ask musically inclined students to score the chapter like a movement in a symphony, and you have added another talent to the pool. If nothing else, just getting students on their feet and moving in a classroom breaks the vacuum of boredom and infuses new energies that can make the experience of teaching the novel truly a novel experience.

References

Austen, Jane. Northanger Abbey. New York: Penguin Press, 1995.

Brooks, Peter. Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984.

Bruffee, Ken. "Sharing our toys--Cooperative learning versus collaborative learning." Change, Jan/Feb, 1995:12-18.

Freytag: http://www.cnr.edu/home/bmcmanus/freytag.html 1 October, 2004 <http://homepages.moeller.org/mmoroski/freytag%27s_pyramid.htm> 1 October, 2004.

Griffith, Kelley. Writing Essays about Literature. 6th edition. Boston, MA: Thomson/Heinle 2002.

Lyons, Richard E., Marcella L. Kysilka, and George E. Pawlas. The Adjunct Professor's Guide to Success: Surviving and Thriving in the College Classroom. Needham Heights, MA: Allyn & Bacon, 1999. Rptd. as #216 Tomorrow's Professor Listserv, sponsored by the Stanford Center for Teaching and Learning. 2004. 1October, 2004. <http://ctl.stanford.edu/Tomprof/index.shtml>

National Education Association. "Thriving in Academe," NEA Higher Education Advocate, vol. 21, no. 2 (December 2003): 5-8.

Nelson, C. (1994). "Critical Thinking and Collaborative Learning." In K. Bosworth & S. J. Hamilton (Eds.), Collaborative learning : underlying processes and effective techniques. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass.

Poldrack, Russell A., and John D. E. Gabrieli. "Characterizing the Neural Mechanisms of skill learning and repetition priming." Brain 124 (2001): 67-82

"Repetition aids learning in children exposed to alcohol pre-birth." Health Behavior News Service. Ed. Ira R. Allen Center. June 17, 2002. Center for the Advancement of Health Affairs. 13 October, 2004. <http://www.hbns.org/newsrelease/learning6-17-02.cfm>

Wein, Toni "Gothic Desire in Charlotte Bronte's Villette." Studies in English Literature vol. 39.4, Autumn 1999: 733-46, rptd. in The Brontes, ed. Patricia Ingham (New York: Longman and Co. 2002): 169-83.

Wein teaches at CSU, and has published on novels from the 18th-20th centuries.