Literary discussion
I haven’t really talked about it much (or at all, I suppose), but classes have started for the Spring 2007 semester. I’m really enjoying the semester so far, which is a welcome change from how I’ve generally felt all of the previous ones have gone. Each semester, I sign up for classes and expect them to be one way, but usually find that they are slightly different than what I was led to believe from the course descriptions. So far, everything seems to be right on track for this semester, which is great.
One of my courses is going to be challenging in a way I hadn’t expected, though. My Law in Literature class is a class where, ostensibly, we are learning about how law is portrayed in literature and what preconceived notions that clients may come to us with in the future. In reality, we’re reading detective novels and discussing them, as if the class was a book club. This suits me just fine because it is a refreshing change from statutory interpretation and case law.
As fun as it might sound, I’m already somewhat nervous that my classmates are simply not prepared to understand the very nature of what project they are enmeshed in. We just finished reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” and started discussion today. I walked out of that class with the impression that the vast majority of the class finished that book with a profound misunderstanding of the nature of the characters involved.
The general consensus of the class was that Sherlock Holmes was a conceited, egotistical jerk whose relationship to Watson was either written as that of keeping Watson down to make Holmes look better or of a teacher harshly pushing a student to better himself. When I heard these thoughts, I was floored.
How could they all have gotten it so utterly wrong?
When I suggested to the class that Holmes wasn’t really egotistical, the idea was dismissed and a fellow pointed out that Holmes had his feelings hurt when he was unable to catch a suspect in London. Holmes had turned to Watson and told him that, when chronicling their adventure, Watson should not leave out Holmes’ failure to catch the suspect. Some other heads in the class nodded in agreement at the fellow’s recollection of this event.
Could these people really be serious? If so, I worry at their futures as lawyers. Holmes, far from being an egotistical man, is virtually without ego and pride. He is unconcerned with his own feelings and wholly concerned with truth-finding. Indeed, a man overly prideful would have desired that Watson endeavor to sugarcoat or hide the failure in his writings. Holmes was so unconcerned with Watson writing about the failure that he demands that Watson do so. Why? Because it is the truth of what actually happened.
How individuals could try to use the most damning piece of evidence against their theory of ‘Holmes as the egotist’ in their favor bodes ill for their ability to prepare an internally coherent theory of a case later on, I fear.
One of my courses is going to be challenging in a way I hadn’t expected, though. My Law in Literature class is a class where, ostensibly, we are learning about how law is portrayed in literature and what preconceived notions that clients may come to us with in the future. In reality, we’re reading detective novels and discussing them, as if the class was a book club. This suits me just fine because it is a refreshing change from statutory interpretation and case law.
As fun as it might sound, I’m already somewhat nervous that my classmates are simply not prepared to understand the very nature of what project they are enmeshed in. We just finished reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” and started discussion today. I walked out of that class with the impression that the vast majority of the class finished that book with a profound misunderstanding of the nature of the characters involved.
The general consensus of the class was that Sherlock Holmes was a conceited, egotistical jerk whose relationship to Watson was either written as that of keeping Watson down to make Holmes look better or of a teacher harshly pushing a student to better himself. When I heard these thoughts, I was floored.
How could they all have gotten it so utterly wrong?
When I suggested to the class that Holmes wasn’t really egotistical, the idea was dismissed and a fellow pointed out that Holmes had his feelings hurt when he was unable to catch a suspect in London. Holmes had turned to Watson and told him that, when chronicling their adventure, Watson should not leave out Holmes’ failure to catch the suspect. Some other heads in the class nodded in agreement at the fellow’s recollection of this event.
Could these people really be serious? If so, I worry at their futures as lawyers. Holmes, far from being an egotistical man, is virtually without ego and pride. He is unconcerned with his own feelings and wholly concerned with truth-finding. Indeed, a man overly prideful would have desired that Watson endeavor to sugarcoat or hide the failure in his writings. Holmes was so unconcerned with Watson writing about the failure that he demands that Watson do so. Why? Because it is the truth of what actually happened.
How individuals could try to use the most damning piece of evidence against their theory of ‘Holmes as the egotist’ in their favor bodes ill for their ability to prepare an internally coherent theory of a case later on, I fear.
posted by The Academian | 6:00 PM
4 Comments:
Seriously? This is what makes you fear for the future of the legal profession?
Holmes refers to his mistake as "bad luck" as well as "bad management." He also uses the occasion to recall his many "successes." It's as much a sign of humility as it is a backhanded way of reminding Watson of how great he is.
Anyone's entitled to think that Holmes is "virtually without ego and pride," but I'd hardly say that passage is the nail in the coffin of the alternative argument.
I have to admit, I was hesitant to even read your comment. When I first noticed that I had a comment a few days ago, I told myself it probably wasn’t worth reading or responding to. I don’t think that my reaction was unwarranted, given that the past two comments have been from someone (an acquaintance of yours?) who accused me of some fairly nasty things, openly admitted she didn’t pay much attention when I tried to defend myself, renewed her vicious and unwarranted attack, made fun of my beliefs, and then topped the verbal assault with the cherry of questioning my sexuality.
I hope you can understand my reluctance to experience another such barrage of seemingly hateful language when my attempts to defend myself appeared to go unaided and unread.
So I have to express my relief to see that it wasn’t somebody making foundationless character attacks on my person. Replying to someone who makes assertions and backs it with evidence (as you did by offering a differing interpretation of the same passage) certainly makes for a nice change of pace.
Is the inability to find the correct interpretation of facts what makes me fear for the future of the legal profession? Certainly. It isn’t the most pressing concern about our shared discipline’s future, but it is definitely one which is a cause for alarm. Just as the death of amphibians is an early warning that something is going terribly wrong with an environment, the inability of most students to understand the foundations of their own knowledge and construct proper inferences is something that should be noted and resolved. Is it the base problem itself? No, probably not. It is, though, a sign of a deeper problem that must be watched, contained, and remedied to return things to their delicate balance.
In logical and critical thinking there are an infinite number of possible explanations for any given set of factual data. The philosopher, Wittgenstein, wrote that this was true (I think it was him, but don’t ask me to pin down where he said it), and to test his assertion, imagine reducing a factual scenario to mathematics.
Suppose I gave you a sequence of numbers (0, 2, 4, 6, 8, 10…) and asked you to come up with an interpretation (a rule) that would explain this sequence. An immediate solution is obvious (X+2), but is it the only solution? Certainly not. The rule might just as easily have been X+2 for all integers where X falls between 0 and 10, and then X+3. No matter what explanation for the data you see, there are always others that fit the data just as perfectly.
So how, in science and logic, do we ever make conclusions? Part of this dilemma is why the philosopher of science, Karl Popper, wrote that science must be falsifiable. No conclusion in any field can be truly known with certainty (not even this one). Hence, science (and logic) can only rule out explanations.
The same is true when critically thinking about a work of literature. In this case, Holmes’ actions are bits of data, and every interaction with someone is a piece of evidence that refuses to lend credence to some theory or another. None can actively support a theory since they could just as easily be said to support any number of theories (an infinite number if Wittgenstein was right).
The test, then, is to see whether my theory can be falsified. I propose that Holmes, far from being an egotistical guy, is concerned wholly with finding the truth of the mysteries to which he devotes himself. Understand that I’m not suggesting Holmes is obsessed with truth in all areas of life (he actively hides himself from Watson and fools Sir Henry Baskerville). He’s not concerned with finding the truth of a case for the sake of his client (although that might be a nice touch). He’s not solving it for Watson, which explains why he’s unconcerned about filling Watson in on the details of his plan. He’s only concerned about finding out the truth about the affair which has currently caught his attention to sate his own curiosity.
The general consensus from the class, as I gathered it anyway, was that Holmes was more concerned about showing everybody how much better he was than them. As someone who wrestles with pride myself, I’m keenly aware of the lengths one is willing to go to in order to cover their own mistakes. Indeed, that’s why writing some of the things I’ve written on these pages is so difficult for me. Holmes, though, isn’t like me.
Te test to and exemplifying the virtue of truth-seeking. In the encounter over which our interpretations differ, the fact that he orders Watson to write of his failings as well as his triumphs seems to falsify the theory that Holmes is concerned with his pride above all other values. Prideful people will try to draw attention away from their failings, and certainly don’t actively try to draw attention to them.
Conversely, that Holmes wished for Watson to write about both his failings and triumphs does fit with my theory that Holmes is more concerned about truth than his pride. Holmes demands truth, even when that truth paints him in a less than flattering light.
Ultimately, the novel revolves around the distinction between people who seek truth and people who seek stories to explain the universe around them. On either side of the spectrum, we have Holmes (who personifies Reason, Logic, and the values of the Enlightenment) and Dr. Mortimer (who personifies Spiritualism and Supernaturalism). Dr. Mortimer’s explanations are moving and intriguing – they can capture the imagination and the heart. Holmes’ explanations are rather pedestrian, common, and inspire little in the way of rapid heartbeat and quickened breath.
Between the two extremes lies the reader, personified in Dr. Watson. It is no accident that he narrates this story. Readers are meant to self-identify with Watson.
Dr. Watson is torn between the two extremes. Initially, he understands and appreciates how Holmes can approach the world and easily resolve its mysteries in a way that generates results in a predictable fashion. However, once separated from that constant reminder of the values of Enlightenment thinking, he is seduced by the tantalizing explanations suggested to him by Dr. Mortimer. The reader is dragged along this path, and, with Doyle’s vivid descriptions of the moor, even the reader cannot help but feel the desolation of the landscape and shudder with the feel of an imagined chill in the air.
Nonetheless, Holmes returns to the misguided Watson, saves him from his lapse into supernaturalism, and proves that no matter how exciting, fulfilling, and intriguing the supernatural explanation might be, in the end there are only people doing the kinds of things that people do, with predictable results. Demonic Hell-hound bent on the ruination of a family? Not likely. Male heir to the estate seeking to inherit the family’s fortune? Far more likely.
Doyle’s novel is a vivid call for everyone to overcome the part of us that desperately wants to believe in the powers of demons and angels and to listen instead to that part of us that knows deep inside that the Butler probably did it.
First of all, woe is you. Is that what you were looking for?
Second, don't flatter yourself.
Third, I really couldn't decipher your response that well, but I don't think it convinced me of anything but the fact that brevity is a virtue. Seriously, Matt, I don't get what you're saying, nor do I think it proves your point.
Woe is me? Only in some regards. In others, I’m quite fine.
Let me put it this way, though. In my Law and Literature class, a woman I respect said that a hallmark of a good novel is that there is a resolution to the story. Everyone’s life is a story – filled with high points and low, good times and bad, conflict and resolution. This is just as true for my life as it is for yours.
Put yourself in my shoes. Imagine that you tell a friend of yours something hidden about your life, but also tell them why you aren’t comfortable revealing every last detail about that secret you kept hidden. Rather than be honored that you trusted that person enough to tell them something special about yourself, she blows up, accuses you of lying to her, humiliates you in front of her friends, and thereafter refuses to engage you as she once did. Imagine the pain and bewilderment you would feel if that happened to you.
Now add on top of that the idea that neither the friend, nor any of the mutual friends from your little circle want anything to do with you anymore, and they won’t tell you why. You don’t know what you did wrong. You reflect on it, come up with any number of answers, and make sincere attempts to apologize and set things right… and you might as well be talking to a stone wall.
Where’s the resolution in that? Do I have a right to have a continuing wound? Yes. Will it likely go away as more years intervene? Yes. The fact that I managed to forget even a group of girls who were special people in my life from only a decade ago proves that everything can fade as new memories replace the old. That does not, however, excuse the fact that people exist right now who could give resolution one way or another in a calm, reasoned, and empathetic manner.
I haven’t the foggiest notion of where I flattered myself in my reply. My only reference to myself appears to be when I pointed out that I have an overabundance of pride (a cardinal sin, according to Catholic doctrines) which is as I admit a character flaw.
Brevity is only a virtue when discussing something simple. Literary interpretation, once beyond the high school and Hollywood variety where ‘coming of age’ and ‘alienation’ are themes, is nuanced and complex. I suggest that in Doyle’s work, Holmes is a personification of a set of abstract concepts common to a way of thinking that emerged from a period of Western thought. Dr. Mortimer is his antithesis who represents the same type of Medieval superstition that underwrites modern epistemological errors (like belief in astrology, crystal-technology, and, I submit, most religions). Dr. Watson is torn between the utility of the first and the beauty of the second just as are normal people today. Ultimately, the set of values that Holmes represents wins the soul of Watson, and hopefully, the reader. Using the reasoning common to the logical and scientific world (the world of Holmes) readers can sort through an infinite number of explanations in search of one that fits the data, while rejecting ones that are falsified by it. Using this very process, I suggest that my theory fits the data, while the theory that Holmes is an egotist concerned with more with his own pride than truth is falsified.
I’m not dealing with low-level literary interpretation here. I’m suggesting a complicated and nuanced conception of a literary work that is difficult to understand, even for me. Only after lengthy discussion with people who work in technical and scientific fields (and who absolutely understood Holmes' way of thinking and mannerisms) did the idea come to me that the story is a good allegory for the struggle in all of mankind between truth-seeking and story-telling as a means to understand the world.
Ultimately, until presented with a flaw in the theory, it remains viable and unfalsified.
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