says that I could have my pick of any high school teaching job in America. He’s wrong, of course. I
couldn’t keep up with the people already there.
To the English teachers who have made How to Read Literature Like a Professor a success, I can
offer only my profound gratitude. That this book is even in print, much less in the process of being
revised, is all your fault. I can’t thank each of you individually, but I would like to thank some
representative members of the tribe: Joyce Haner (now retired) of Okemos High School (Michigan),
for many late-night discussions at, of all places, softball team parties, as well as for being my first
welcomer among Michigan teachers; Amy Anderson and Bill Spruytte of Lapeer East High School
(Michigan); Stacey Turczyn of Powers Catholic High School in Flint; and Gini Wozny of Academy of
the Redwoods in Eureka, California, all of whom sent their—and their students’—recommendations
and suggestions for the new edition. Literally dozens of others have offered suggestions in person or
via e-mail over the years, and to each of you, many, many thanks. What you do is far more important
than any book.
The changes to this edition are modest but, I hope, significant. Most significant, to my troubled
mind, is that I was able to remove or correct two or three howling blunders. No, I won’t tell you what
they were. It’s bad enough I’ve had to live with them, so I certainly won’t broadcast my folly. And
there are quite a few fit-and-finish issues I was able to resolve, little matters of grammar and
orthography—needless repetitions of words or phrases, an unhappy word choice here or there, the
usual niggling matters that make it so hard to read one’s own work and that make one think, “Surely I
could have done better than that.” But there are also matters of substance. The chapter on sonnet
shape was generally deemed not to fit the rest of the volume. It’s about form and structure, really,
when the rest of the book is about figurative meaning and the way meaning deflects from one object or
action or event at the surface level to something else on another. If, like me, you always liked that
chapter, fear not. I’m planning a discussion of poetry, quite possibly in e-book form, so that chapter
may reappear in a couple of years. The chapters on illness, heart and otherwise, have been shortened
and run together; it felt as if the text was straining for length there.
In their place, I added a chapter on characterization and on why being buddies with protagonists is
so bad for the health of second fiddles. There’s also a new discussion on public versus private
symbols. One of the central precepts of the book is that there is a universal grammar of figurative
imagery, that in fact images and symbols gain much of their power from repetition and
reinterpretation. Naturally, however, writers are always inventing new metaphors and symbols that
sometimes recur throughout their work, or that show up once and are never heard from again. In either
case, we need a strategy for dealing with these anomalies, so I try to oblige.
I have also included, as a path toward increased analytical confidence, a meditation on taking
charge of one’s own reading experience, of understanding the reader’s importance in the creation of
literary meaning. It’s surprising to me how, even as they actively create readings of their own,
students and other readers can still maintain an essentially passive view of experiencing texts. It’s
high time they gave themselves more credit.
Of course, literature is a moving target, and thousands upon thousands of books have been
published in the decade or so since the book appeared. While there is no need to overhaul the
references and examples from edition to edition, I have used a few illustrations from more recent
publications. There have been some terrific developments in poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction
in the last few years, even for those of us who are not enthralled by teenage vampires or Jane
Austen’s novels beset by monsters and parasitic adaptations. Mr. Darcy’s Second Cousin’s Wife
Gets a Hangnail. That sort of thing. Against those trends, however, we can set the appearance of
talented newcomers as well as work by established masters in the various genres, writers as diverse
and interesting as Zadie Smith, Monica Ali, Jess Walter, Colum McCann, Colm Tóibín, Margaret
Atwood, Thomas Pynchon, Emma Donoghue, Lloyd Jones, Adam Foulds, Orhan Pamuk, Téa Obreht,
and Audrey Niffenegger. And that’s just the fiction writers. There have been startling new finds and
painful losses. We sometimes hear of the death of literature or of this or that genre (the novel is a
favorite whipping boy), but literature doesn’t die, just as it doesn’t “progress” or “decay.” It expands,
it increases. When we feel that it has become stagnant or stale, that usually just means we ourselves
are not paying sufficient attention. Whether it’s the untold story of a famous writer’s wife or the racial
newcomers to a changing Britain or America or a boy in a lifeboat with a tiger or a tiger in a Balkan
village or a man on a wire between the Twin Towers, new tales, as well as old tales with new
wrinkles, continue to be told. Makes you want to keep getting up in the morning just to see what
happens next.
While we’re on the subject of thanksgiving, I would like to express my gratitude to a critically
important population. Every time I meet with students, I am inspired. In the course of my work,
naturally I deal with college students, both undergraduate and graduate, on a frequent basis, and those
interactions have been rich, full, frustrating, uplifting, disappointing, and sometimes downright
miraculous. English majors form a large portion of that group, but thanks to the wonders of general
education requirements, I have had a great deal of contact with majors in other fields (biologists are a
special favorite), and they inevitably bring different skill sets, different attitudes, and different
questions to the table. They make me pay attention.
I have also, for the last ten years or so, had frequent contact with high school students, an
experience I wish everyone could have—not merely high-school-age young people, but teenagers in
their capacity as students. A great deal has been written and said about this group, most of it negative
—they don’t read, can’t write, don’t care about the world around them, don’t know anything about
history or science or politics or, well, you name it. In other words, the same things that have been
said about teenagers since I was one. And for a long time before that. I’m pretty sure that one day we
will unearth a clay tablet or a papyrus scroll with those exact sentiments expressed. I’m sure some of
it is true, that some of it has always been true. But here’s what I know, from my dealings in person
and via e-mail, about high school students. They are thoughtful, interested and interesting, curious,
rebellious, forward-looking, ambitious, and hardworking. When faced with the choice, many opt for
the heavier workload and higher demands of AP classes, even though they could slide through
something easier. They are readers. Many read—and some read a huge amount—beyond the syllabus.
They write. More than a few aspire to write professionally. When told that it is nearly impossible to
make a living as a writer and likely to get even harder, they still aspire to be writers. I know this from
all the questions I field and the conversations we have together. And as long as there are young
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