people who are interested in language, in story, in poetry, in writing, there will be literature. It may
move into digital realms, it may return to handmade manuscripts, it may take form in graphic novels
or on screens, but it will continue to be created. And read.
A couple of years ago, I gave a talk and reading in Grand Rapids. Students from a local district
came to the event to get me to sign books. Not the book that had just been published, but the one they
had been assigned the previous year in tenth grade. This book. Now, lest you misunderstand, this
event was after the school year, so there was no extra credit on offer. They were there because they
loved their English class, which really means they loved the teacher who made the class great, and
because the book was written by someone who was (a) in Michigan, (b) coming to their town, and (c)
not dead. That last part made me a rarity in their school reading. The books were used. Hard used,
lots of underlinings and broken spines and dog-eared covers. A couple seemed to have met a
bulldozer. Several of the kids said a variation of the following statement, which I get with some
frequency, “My heart sank when I saw that a book on reading was assigned, but it turned out to be
pretty cool/not so bad/all right.” And they thanked me. They thanked me. I nearly wept.
Faced with all that, how could I be anything but grateful?
Introduction
How’d He Do That?
M
R.
L
INDER
? T
HAT MILQUETOAST
?
Right. Mr. Lindner the milquetoast. So what did you think the devil would look like? If he were red
with a tail, horns, and cloven hooves, any fool could say no.
The class and I are discussing Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun (1959), one of the great
plays of the American theater. The incredulous questions have come, as they often do, in response to
my innocent suggestion that Mr. Lindner is the devil. The Youngers, an African American family in
Chicago, have made a down payment on a house in an all-white neighborhood. Mr. Lindner, a meekly
apologetic little man, has been dispatched from the neighborhood association, check in hand, to buy
out the family’s claim on the house. At first, Walter Lee Younger, the protagonist, confidently turns
down the offer, believing that the family’s money (in the form of a life insurance payment after his
father’s recent death) is secure. Shortly afterward, however, he discovers that two-thirds of that
money has been stolen. All of a sudden the previously insulting offer comes to look like his financial
salvation.
Bargains with the devil go back a long way in Western culture. In all the versions of the Faust
legend, which is the dominant form of this type of story, the hero is offered something he desperately
wants—power or knowledge or a fastball that will beat the Yankees—and all he has to give up is his
soul. This pattern holds from the Elizabethan Christopher Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus through the
nineteenth-century Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Faust to the twentieth century’s Stephen Vincent
Benét’s “The Devil and Daniel Webster” and Damn Yankees . In Hansberry’s version, when Mr.
Lindner makes his offer, he doesn’t demand Walter Lee’s soul; in fact, he doesn’t even know that he’s
demanding it. He is, though. Walter Lee can be rescued from the monetary crisis he has brought upon
the family; all he has to do is admit that he’s not the equal of the white residents who don’t want him
moving in, that his pride and self-respect, his identity, can be bought. If that’s not selling your soul,
then what is it?
The chief difference between Hansberry’s version of the Faustian bargain and others is that Walter
Lee ultimately resists the satanic temptation. Previous versions have been either tragic or comic
depending on whether the devil successfully collects the soul at the end of the work. Here, the
protagonist psychologically makes the deal but then looks at himself and at the true cost and recovers
in time to reject the devil’s—Mr. Lindner’s—offer. The resulting play, for all its tears and anguish, is
structurally comic—the tragic downfall threatened but avoided—and Walter Lee grows to heroic
stature in wrestling with his own demons as well as the external one, Lindner, and coming through
without falling.
A moment occurs in this exchange between professor and student when each of us adopts a look. My
look says, “What, you don’t get it?” Theirs says, “We don’t get it. And we think you’re making it up.”
We’re having a communication problem. Basically, we’ve all read the same story, but we haven’t
used the same analytical apparatus. If you’ve ever spent time in a literature classroom as a student or
a professor, you know this moment. It may seem at times as if the professor is either inventing
interpretations out of thin air or else performing parlor tricks, a sort of analytical sleight of hand.
Actually, neither of these is the case; rather, the professor, as the slightly more experienced reader,
has acquired over the years the use of a certain “language of reading,” something to which the
students are only beginning to be introduced. What I’m talking about is a grammar of literature, a set
of conventions and patterns, codes and rules, that we learn to employ in dealing with a piece of
writing. Every language has a grammar, a set of rules that govern usage and meaning, and literary
language is no different. It’s all more or less arbitrary, of course, just like language itself. Take the
word “arbitrary” as an example: it doesn’t mean anything inherently; rather, at some point in our past
we agreed that it would mean what it does, and it does so only in English (those sounds would be so
much gibberish in Japanese or Finnish). So too with art: we decided to agree that perspective—the
set of tricks artists use to provide the illusion of depth—was a good thing and vital to painting. This
occurred during the Renaissance in Europe, but when Western and Oriental art encountered each
other in the 1700s, Japanese artists and their audiences were serenely untroubled by the lack of
perspective in their painting. No one felt it particularly essential to the experience of pictorial art.
Literature has its grammar, too. You knew that, of course. Even if you didn’t know that, you knew
from the structure of the preceding paragraph that it was coming. How? The grammar of the essay.
You can read, and part of reading is knowing the conventions, recognizing them, and anticipating the
results. When someone introduces a topic (the grammar of literature), then digresses to show other
topics (language, art, music, dog training—it doesn’t matter what examples; as soon as you see a
couple of them, you recognize the pattern), you know he’s coming back with an application of those
examples to the main topic (voilà!). And he did. So now we’re all happy, because the convention has
been used, observed, noted, anticipated, and fulfilled. What more can you want from a paragraph?
Well, as I was saying before I so rudely digressed, so too in literature. Stories and novels have a
very large set of conventions: types of characters, plot rhythms, chapter structures, point-of-view
limitations. Poems have a great many of their own, involving form, structure, rhythm, rhyme. Plays,
too. And then there are conventions that cross genre lines. Spring is largely universal. So is snow. So
is darkness. And sleep. When spring is mentioned in a story, a poem, or a play, a veritable
constellation of associations rises in our imaginative sky: youth, promise, new life, young lambs,
children skipping . . . on and on. And if we associate even further, that constellation may lead us to
more abstract concepts such as rebirth, fertility, renewal.
Okay, let’s say you’re right and there is a set of conventions, a key to reading literature. How
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