Virtually universally, when someone asks me what I studied in school and I tell them I just finished my Master’s degree in English literature, I get one of two responses: “Why?” or “So you want to teach?” The questions come as if people believe the study of literature is useless for any purpose aside from teaching other people about literature. Implied within that mindset is that literary study has no real-world application beyond the mere aesthetic appreciation of the written word. One studies literature, many believe, because it is beautiful and deserves to be preserved via academia.
If you are a fellow degree-holder or someone working toward a degree in English literature, I would like to record for you the response I have fine-tuned after years of recital. I used to be exasperated, even offended, by the question; now, I welcome it as a chance to offer my oration, my defense . . . my justification. Although I do not condone the act of plagiarism, I must help my brethren, so the next time someone asks you, feel free to use my argument, or parts of it, at least. It is time, after all, for literary study to garner the respect it deserves.
In Frederick Douglass’s Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, a Slave (1845), he comes to the realization that the only true difference between himself and his master is the ability to read and write. Without literacy, he concludes that he is hardly better than a dog. Reading and writing are the forms of communication unique to humans, and are thus intrinsic to one’s humanity. Secretly, Douglass learns to read and write, becomes a free man, and writes his famous narratives, having a profound impact on the abolitionist movement as a result. Although this story is no allegory—it is pure autobiography—my young, impressionable mind read it allegorically. In this world, we humans are slaves unless we cultivate these essential and highly-rewarding gifts that we alone in the animal kingdom possess. Furthermore, if literacy is quintessential to the human condition, then its development surely leads to an advancement in one’s humanity as a result.
Sure enough, I have found that theory to be indelibly true.
The study of literature unlocks a world of human understanding that cannot be obtained through a more sequestered study of other disciplines alone. Indeed, the study of literature is the omnivorous, universal study of the human condition itself and everything that falls under that umbrella. Through literature, one learns history, philosophy, sociology, religion and mythology, ethics, politics, anthropology, and perhaps above all else, psychology. Part of the reason many people don’t recognize literature’s value is because so few people outside of literary studies read true literature; for some unfathomable reason, people seem to think literature classes merely involve the reading of the New York Times’ best sellers. Well, certainly some probably do, but they aren’t the ones that give one the full scope of a literary education.
The masters of literature, the great writers of all time, have one quality in common. Only one. It is experience. These writers are individuals who have lived and experienced powerful, moving, and revealing events, then transformed them into a medium capable of transferring the knowledge gained. Whereas some people have similar experiences and choose to write about them in a pure, prosaic fashion—consider philosophical, historical, or political texts that offer just the facts—literary writers transform their ideas into the realm of narrative, capturing the reader’s imagination and taking hold of the mind. The communicative effect is thus so much more potent, so much more thorough.
As an example, one could easily read a history text about America post-World-War-II and learn plenty of names, dates, and facts. But the result would be far from having experienced America post-World-War-II. To do so, one instead could read such a seminal text as Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (1957) and become fully immersed in the time, experiencing what anyone with open eyes would have experienced. The Cold War anxiety and paranoia, the bopping jazz music exploding from bars, the sense of lost national identity, the budding civil rights movement, the philosophies that led to the hippie movement of the 1960s . . . all of these experiences and so many more are transferred upon the reader almost subconsciously.
More powerfully, however, literature and literature alone allows one to peer inside the workings of the human mind. No psychology textbook or psychological study can allow one to do so to the same degree. The whole range of human emotions, desires, and motives become lucid (with a little digging, at times) through literary masterpieces. The result is a greater understanding of our fellow humans. Take, for instance, Thomas Hardy’s controversial text Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891), which paints the tormented psychological state of a young girl whose life is ruined by rape. Ultimately, she murders her rapist. Such a novel springs from the mind of a brilliant imagination and an unparalleled understanding of the human psyche, sharing insight into the human mind at an uncompromising level. Another perfect example is James Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), which uses the famed stream-of-consciousness technique to put the reader inside the head of Leopold Bloom for every minute of a single day. This protagonist is a man persecuted by anti-Semitism, traumatized by the death of his only son to the point of being unable to have sex with his wife, and tormented by his knowledge that on that day, his wife will cheat on him. His ability to ultimately forgive her strikes the reader as a beautiful achievement of pure human potential, even daring the reader to judge his or her own life by Bloom’s sense of humanity.
Briefly, literature makes us better people. It makes us rethink how we treat others and demands that we try to understand the motives behind how others treat us. It proves that our fellow humans are in fact knowable at an intimate level, should we decide that knowledge is worth the time to obtain.
But then again, some people are too pragmatic for all this bleeding-heart, pure education sort of stuff. “All that is good and fine,” the economically minded questioner will say at this point in my harangue, “but how do you plan to make money?”
The question is valid. Even if you are one of those who does not ascribe to the idiotic need to be a millionaire some day, you do need to eat and sleep under a roof. Money is a part of life that even we literary people can’t escape from, no matter how thick the book we fall into is. We need to make money, and we can be just as good at it as anyone else with the education we get from studying literature. Here’s how.
Obviously, teaching is an avenue for making money. In fact, as far as an education in literature goes, it is by far the most noble avenue—spread the good word, teach others how to do so. Teach at public schools, colleges, universities, adult education institutions. Teach English as a second language. Be a tutor. Writing, too, is an obvious option, and it needn’t be one of those New York Times’ bestsellers to make you a pretty penny. Article writing (especially online these days) is a lucrative market, as is publishing short stories, essays, or editorials. Furthermore, in the business world, virtually every company has to work with writing, and they need skilled writers to do so and copyeditors to double-check those pieces. You need only open your eyes to see a world of writing all around, and although it is a highly competitive job market, it can quickly yield a strong payoff once you get your foot in the door. It’s merely a matter of persistency.
Wrapped up in these two skills of teaching and writing, however, comes the essential skill that can allow us to make money. Having studied literature, we have mastered the art of oration. We know better than anyone else how to express an idea and argue for it, even if it is a far-fetched one. My thought is, we should use that skill to argue for ourselves. No matter what job one applies for, the interview is the most important part, and interviews are where literature students shine. Presentations are a standard part of what we do while studying, and an interview is simply a presentation where the thesis is, “You should give me this job.” Yes, we’re the best bullshitters around; so let’s bullshit these corporate execs into giving us the jobs we need to feed ourselves.
