Communication Skills 

20 Ocak 2013 Pazar - Gönderen helaine zaman: 03:57

COMMUNICATION SKILLS

"We all use language to communicate, to express ourselves, to get our ideas across, and to connect with the person to whom we are speaking. When a relationship is working, the act of communicating seems to flow relatively effortlessly. When a relationship is deteriorating, the act of communicating can be as frustrating as climbing a hill of sand."
- Chip Rose, attorney and mediator
On a daily basis we work with people who have different opinions, values, beliefs, and needs than our own. Our ability to exchange ideas with others, understand others' perspectives, solve problems and successfully utilize the steps and processes presented in this training will depend significantly on how effectively we are able to communicate with others.

The act of communicating involves verbal, nonverbal, and paraverbal components. The verbal component refers to the content of our message‚ the choice and arrangement of our words. The nonverbal component refers to the message we send through our body language. The paraverbal component refers to how we say what we say - the tone, pacing and volume of our voices.

In order to communicate effectively, we must use all three components to do two things:
1. Send clear, concise messages.

2. Hear and correctly understand messages someone is sending to us.

Communication Involves Three Components:
1. Verbal Messages - the words we choose
2. Paraverbal Messages - how we say the words
3. Nonverbal Messages - our body language

These Three Components Are Used To:
1. Send Clear, Concise Messages

2. Receive and Correctly Understand Messages Sent to Us.

Our use of language has tremendous power in the type of atmosphere that is created at the problem-solving table. Words that are critical, blaming, judgmental or accusatory tend to create a resistant and defensive mindset that is not conducive to productive problem solving. On the other hand, we can choose words that normalize the issues and problems and reduce resistance. Phrases such as "in some districts, people may . . .", "it is not uncommon for . . ." and "for some folks in similar situations" are examples of this.
Sending effective messages requires that we state our point of view as briefly and succinctly as possible. Listening to a rambling, unorganized speaker is tedious and discouraging - why continue to listen when there is no interchange? Lengthy dissertations and circuitous explanations are confusing to the listener and the message loses its concreteness, relevance, and impact. This is your opportunity to help the listener understand YOUR perspective and point of view. Choose your words with the intent of making your message as clear as possible, avoiding jargon and unnecessary, tangential information.
Effective Verbal Messages:
1. Are brief, succinct, and organized
2. Are free of jargon
3. Do not create resistance in the listener

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England, Scotland, and Wales 

Gönderen helaine zaman: 03:48

England, Scotland, and Wales

 For much of its history, Great Britain has been divided into three politi- cal and cultural units: England in the south; Wales, a peninsula to the west of England; and Scotland in the north.
The term England comes from the Germanic tribes known as Anglo- Saxons and does not apply to the southern area of Great Britain before the first Anglo-Saxon invasions in the fifth century c.e. Even then the Anglo-Saxons, or “English,” were not politically united, and the Kingdom of England was not formed until the 10th century. However, southern Britain had a distinct identity before the coming of the English. The territory of the Roman province of Britannia was largely the same as that of modern England and Wales.
England is geographically the largest, the wealthiest, and demo- graphically by far the largest of the four major regions of the British Isles, including Ireland. For much of its history, England has dominated Britain and the British Isles. England is mostly a lowland country, with more fertile land and a more temperate climate than its rivals. The most prominent mountain range in England is the Pennines, which extends from the northern Midlands—central England—to northern England and southern Scotland. The highest peak in the Pennines, Cross Fell, is only 2,930 feet (893 meters) high.
England’s wealth has been a curse as well as a blessing, making it a tempting target for expansionist rulers on the European continent, including Roman emperors and Norman dukes. Mountainous and poor, Scotland and Wales have had less to fear from outsiders but more to fear from England itself.
One of the most important regional distinctions within England, affecting several phases of English history, is the division between northern and southern England. Southern England is made up pri-
marily of fertile lowland areas, and it is more closely connected to the European continent. For many periods of English history, northern England has been a frontier region, closer to the Scottish border than the capital at London. The north contains a higher proportion of less agriculturally productive highland country. There is more raising and consumption of oats and barley as opposed to the wheat diet of the south. It is also more oriented to the North Sea in the east and the Irish Sea in the west rather than the English Channel in the south. The city of York in the northeast was one of the most important Viking strongholds in England, and Viking culture had far more impact on the north than the south. The culturally conservative north remained predominantly Catholic after the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century, led predominantly by southerners closely connected with the Protestant movement on the European continent. In the 18th century it was the north, with its abundant deposits of coal, that became the heartland of the Industrial Revolution rather than the richer south. In modern party politics the north is the land of Liberal and Labour rule, in opposition to the Conservative south.
Another distinct English region is Cornwall in the far southwest, inhabited by the only large non-English ethnic group within England itself for most of its history. The Cornish were originally Celtic speakers like the Welsh and the Gaels, but they were too small in number to resist being politically absorbed into England at an early stage. Some medieval and early modern documents and proclama- tions, however, refer to “England and Cornwall,” and some Cornish nationalists have argued that Cornwall remains separate from England, although under the same government. The last speaker of Cornish as a native language died in the 18th century, but there have been modern efforts to revive it. For most of its history, Cornwall was dominated by fishing and tin mining. The first recorded contacts between the British Isles and the classical Mediterranean world was through Mediterranean traders visiting the tin mines of Cornwall, possibly as early as the sixth century b.c.e. They gave Britain the name Isle of Tin.
England’s capital city, London, has been the largest city in England and the British Isles throughout its history since its founding by the Romans as Londinium around the year 50 c.e. Modern London, the largest city in Europe and a great center of world culture, is an agglom- eration of urban units, including the core of medieval London—the City of London—as well as the administrative capital of the borough of Westminster and other cities, towns, and neighborhoods.
Wales is a term applied by the English, meaning “strangers” or “for- eigners.” Unlike England and Scotland, Wales never became a united kingdom. Its poverty and mountainous terrain made it impossible to establish a centralized government, although on some occasions one Welsh prince was able to dominate the entire country, taking the title Prince of Wales, but always failing to establish a royal dynasty. After encroaching on Wales’s frontier for centuries, England conquered the country in the late 13th century, adopting the title Prince of Wales for the English king or queen’s eldest son and heir. Wales was legally united with England, forming the Kingdom of England and Wales, in the 16th century, though the kingdom was usually referred to sim- ply as “England,” emphasizing Wales’s subject position. Nonetheless, it retained a separate cultural and linguistic identity that persists to the present day. Religiously, it developed in the direction of sectarian Protestantism rather than the Church of England. Large areas of Wales are also major producers of coal.
Scotland remained a separate state through the Middle Ages and into the dawn of the 18th century. There were numerous wars between Scotland and England, basically caused by the conflict between the English desire to rule the whole island and the Scottish desire to remain independent. The border between England and Scotland varied before being established on its present course from the Solway Firth, an inlet of the Irish Sea, on the west to the Tweed River on the east. Like Wales, Scotland is relatively poor in good agricultural land com- pared to England. The conjunction of good harbors and fertile lowland with relative ease of transportation has made England (and Ireland) much more vulnerable to invasion by sea than Wales and Scotland, which were usually invaded from England. The most economically fertile area of Scotland for most of its history, and the heartland of the Scottish monarchy, is the lowland area to the southeast. No city domi- nates Scotland the way London does England, but its political capital has long been Edinburgh in the southeast. Other major Scottish cities include Glasgow in the south, one of Britain’s great industrial centers, and Aberdeen in the north.
Scotland is geographically even more isolated than England from the main centers of development on the European continent, and it was often considered by continental Europeans and even the English to be remote. However, it is a crossroads of the North Atlantic, with easy access from the south of Britain, Ireland, and Scandinavia. The long- standing connection between Scotland and the north of Ireland plays
an important role in British history. The original “Scots” were Irish immigrants, and many nobles held lands in both Scotland and Ireland. In the early modern period, many Scots settled in the northern parts of Ireland, becoming the ancestors of the modern Ulster Protestants. 

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Great Britain in the British Archipelago 

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Great Britain in the British Archipelago

 Great Britain has usually been the archipelago’s dominant political and cultural power, and it is certainly the most heavily populated island. The other big island is Ireland, whose history is closely connected with Britain’s. Today Ireland is divided into a large, independent southern coun- try, the Republic of Ireland, and a smaller section in the north, Northern Ireland, which along with Great Britain makes up the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, called the United Kingdom for short. The United Kingdom is often commonly referred to as Britain, a politi- cal usage that differs from the geographical one. Connections between Ireland and Great Britain have included invasions across the Irish Sea in both directions, although the last Irish invasion of any part of Great Britain was in the early Middle Ages. There are long-standing connec- tions of trade and migration between northwestern Britain and Northern Ireland. Christianity first arrived in northwestern Britain from Ireland.
The archipelago also includes many smaller islands. The Isle of Wight, about 147 square miles (381 square kilometers) in size, lies about 4 miles (6.5 kilometers) off the southern coast of Britain. The Isle of Wight’s close proximity to south Britain has led its history to be part of south Britain’s rather than one with its own identity. Today it is politically united with Britain, as it has been for centuries.
Another close island is the Welsh island of Anglesey, off the northern coast of Wales. The Menai Strait, which separates Anglesey from the mainland of Wales, is only about 273 yards (250 meters) at its narrow- est point. Anglesey covers about 276 square miles (715 square kilome- ters). Its isolation made it a stronghold of Welsh tradition, the last area in Wales to fall to the Romans and currently one of the areas with the greatest density of Welsh speakers.
The Isle of Man, about 221 square miles (572 square kilometers), sits in the Irish Sea between Great Britain and Ireland and has a very different history and status, having belonged to England, Scotland, Ireland, and Norway. Unlike Anglesey and the Isle of Wight, the Isle of Man is not formally part of the United Kingdom but a separate Crown dependency.
Another Crown dependency is the Channel Islands, a chain of small islands between southern England and France in the English Channel. There are five inhabited islands—Jersey, Guernsey, Sark, Alderney, and Herm. The islands combine a French and British heritage, and their native language is a dialect of French. Their relationship to the European continent has been closer than that of the rest of the British Isles. During World War II (1939–45), the Channel Islands were the only part of the British Isles occupied by the Germans.
Another group of small islands in the south are the Isles of Scilly. Unlike the Channel Islands, they are not Crown dependencies but part of Great Britain. Their culture and history is most closely linked to that of Cornwall, a county in southwest England.
Several island chains have become part of Scotland. The Hebrides and the northern chains—the Shetlands and Orkneys—have also been linked to Scandinavia. The Hebrides are a large group of islands divided into the Inner Hebrides, off the coast of Scotland, and the Outer Hebrides, farther northwest. The larger islands of the Inner Hebrides include Jura and Islay. The major island of the Outer Hebrides is called Lewis and Harris. Contested for centuries between the Norwegian kings, various local rul- ers, and the kings of Scotland, the Hebrides were eventually incorporated into Scotland. Like Anglesey, they are a stronghold of Celtic speakers. The Celtic language of Scotland, Gaelic, is still spoken in the Hebrides.
Orkney is a small chain of islands immediately to the north of Scotland. It, too, was contested between Scotland and Norway, only becoming Scottish in the 15th century. Its largest island is called Mainland. The people of Orkney have a strong Scandinavian tradition and differ culturally from the Scottish mainland. Their language has a distinct Norse influence.
The British isles farthest to the north are known as Shetland. Again, the largest island is called Mainland, and its political and cultural his- tory resembles that of Orkney; in fact, the two island groups have been politically and ecclesiastically united on several occasions. 

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Gönderen helaine zaman: 03:41

      INTRODUCTION

  Like that of all nations, the history of Great Britain is conditioned by its geographic setting. The plethora of geographical and political factors found in Britain can be overwhelming and reflects the ebb and flow of power over the centuries.

 Geography, Climate, and Natural Resources
Great Britain, which includes the constituent units of England, Wales, and Scotland, is the world’s ninth-largest island. It covers about 80,823 square miles (209,331 square kilometers) and extends about 600 miles (966 kilometers) from north to south and about 300 miles (483 kilome- ters) from east to west. Britain is the largest island of the British Isles, an archipelago—that is, a group of islands.
 Despite Britain’s position in the northern latitudes of Europe—the same distance from the equator as the southern parts of the cold countries of Norway and Sweden—the presence of the warm waters of the Gulf Stream makes the archipelago much warmer than the cor- responding areas in North America or Scandinavia. (Some fear that global warming will alter the course of the Gulf Stream away from the British Isles; thus, paradoxically, some British worry that it will make their islands much colder.) The climate is very wet, and rainfall is pretty evenly distributed and frequent, meaning that British farmers have little need for the elaborate irrigation systems characteristic of drier climes. Britain is seismically stable, and British earthquakes are small and very rarely destructive.
Britain is well endowed with minerals, particularly tin, lead, iron, and coal. The availability of iron and coal is one of the reasons why Britain was the home of the Industrial Revolution. Its North Sea coastal waters also have oil, but the supply is fast running out.
No place on the island of Great Britain is farther than 70 miles (113 kilometers) from the sea, and Britain’s rivers and irregular coastline provide numerous harbors, particularly facing south and east. The British were not always great sailors, nor did they always have a strong navy, but those powerful on the seas were a constant threat. Britain’s
separation from the continent also means that most invaders of Britain were not entire peoples on the move but smaller groups of warriors. Successful invasions and conquests in British history have usually resulted in the imposition of a new ruling class rather than the intro- duction of an entirely new people.
Britain is marked by pronounced regional differences. The most basic division is that between highland areas and lowland areas. The “highland zone” is defined by being over 200 meters (656 feet) above sea level. Highland zones are found in Wales, much of Scotland, north- ern England, and parts of southwestern England, although lowland pockets exist in highland territories. The British highland zone is not really mountainous, as the highest mountains reach the modest height of roughly 4000 feet (1,219 meters). There is a much higher propor- tion of highland land in Scotland than in England, and the difference between the highlands and the lowlands and their inhabitants plays a central role in Scottish history and culture.
The highlands are marked by a greater emphasis on pastoralism, as they have mostly chalky soil and are too wet and cold for successful agriculture. The highlands are also much less densely populated than the lowlands, as it requires much more land to support a human being through pastoralism than through agriculture. Lowland areas are usu- ally more fertile. The most fertile lowlands are in the south and south- east of Britain, where there is rich, heavy soil more suited to agriculture. Lowlanders can engage in raising either grains or livestock, depending on circumstances. In the Middle Ages much of the lowlands was turned over to the highly profitable production of wool. Lowlanders tended to live in villages, highlanders in small hamlets or isolated farmsteads, or to be nomadic.
Invasions of Britain had much less effect on the highlands than on the lowlands, which constituted the really valuable prize due to their greater agricultural productivity. Those regimes exercising power throughout Britain or the British Isles were usually based in lowland England, the only place capable of supporting them. The extension of power from the lowlands to the highlands was a difficult challenge due to the difficulty of the terrain. Mountainous Wales preserved its independence for centuries despite its poverty and its inability to unite politically. The only invaders to subdue Wales before the 13th century were the well-organized and disciplined Roman legions, and it took them years after the conquest of England. The less-organized Anglo- Saxons, Vikings, and Normans had a much harder time, and Wales was only permanently annexed to England in 1284. 
The greater poverty of the highlands meant that highlanders often raided lowlanders, creating hostility between the two. The highlands were also more culturally and linguistically conservative. Cultural innovations usually originated in the lowlands and spread to the highlands. The highlands were where the Celtic languages lasted the longest, as English and its offshoots, originally the language of Anglo- Saxon invaders, became the dominant tongue of the lowlands in the early Middle Ages. This cultural division further added to the hostility between highland and lowland peoples.
Other variations in land include those of open country, with lighter soils; forests with heavy, clayey soils; and fens and swamps. Britain in the earliest times was heavily forested and also contained many fens and swamplands. These areas were often associated with outlaws and people who lived freer but poorer lives. Over the course of millennia, much of this land has been developed into agricultural use.
There are no really large rivers in Britain due to the small size of the island. The most important is the Thames in the south; others include the Trent and the Tweed in the north. Despite the lack of good, waterborne internal communications, the ocean’s proximity makes it relatively easy to move goods from place to place, as coal was moved from the north to London. In the 18th and early 19th centuries British entrepreneurs and landowners created a network of canals to make up for the relative lack of inland waterways. In the 19th and 20th centu- ries, railroads served a similar function. 

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Past tenses 

19 Ocak 2013 Cumartesi - Gönderen helaine zaman: 03:59
 We often use the past simple tense for single completed events and past states and we use the past continuous for temporary or interrupted actions. We use the past perfect tense for actions which happened before  a time in the past.

PAST SIMPLE

. completed past actions
Julius Caesar invaded Britain in 55 BC.

. past states 
The Incas did not heave written script.


 PAST CONTINUOUS

. actions in progress at a time in the past 
We did not hear him come in because we were sleeping on the top floor that night.

. past temporary and changing situations
His symptoms were becoming more pronounced as time went by.

. past background situations
Night was falling over the beleaguered city.

. past interrupted actions 
They  were crossing the bridge when the earthquake struck

. past arrangements 
Nancy was taking the next flight.

 PAST PERFECT SIMPLE

 . actions and states before a time in the past
By the third month the rebels had taken most of the province

. an earlier action in a past sequence 
When we got back the babysitter had gone home

. unfilfilled intentions 
They had hoped to reach the summit but Travelers fell it.

PAST PERFECT CONTINUOUS 

 . an ongoing to station up to or just before a time in the past 
He had been dreading this meeting for weeks.

 PRESENT PERFECT SIMPLE

 . ongoing sattes and actions
. ongoing times, or actions which may be repeated in the future
. with superlatives 
. with adverbs 
. past action with present relevance 
. recent actions 
. with time clauses 

  PRESENT PERFECT CONTINUOUS 

 . ongoing states and actions
. ongoing actions or states which are temporary or may change 
. focus on the duration of a continuing action
. recent actions
. explaining a present result ( focus on the activity )

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Present tenses 

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 The present simple and the present continuous tenses are the most common ways of expressing present time in English. The present simple describes things that are generally true, while the present continuous describes things that are true at the time of speaking, but which may change. They can also express future time and past time.

   PRESENT SIMPLE

  - General truths and facts
. Things which are generally true:
  British people drink a lot of tea, while Americans drink more coffee
. Facts: Broken bones in adults don't heal as fast as they do in children

 - Repeated events and actions
  As temperatures fall with the approach of winter, the soil freezes and contracts..

  - Series of events and actions
   From here you cross the road, go through an iron gate and follow the path west..

 - Newspaper headlines 
   Addicted Chaplin star gets three years for new drugs lapse
  PRESENT CONTINUOUS

  The present continuous describes an action in progress at the moment of speaking or around the time of speaking.The action is likely to continue after the time of speaking, but is likely to stop at the some point, i.e it is temporary:

 - Common adverbs with this form are now, just, still and at the moment
   I will be with you in a minute. I am just finishing something in the kitchen.

 - We use live, work, study, and stay in the continuous  if the action id temporary 
   She is staying in the Waldorf Astoria on this visit to New York, isn't she?
 

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Reading & Vocabulary 

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1. COLLOCATIONS
to slag off
to wind sb up
to butter sb up
to chatter away
to get tongue-tied

2. DEFINITIONS
to look maliciously or with sexual desire - LEER
extremely unpleasant and rude - OBNOXIOUS
to repeat sounds at the beginning of words - STUTTER
to quarrel about petty matters - BICKER
to speak words in a slow, lazy matter - SLUR
silly and childish - PUERILE
to lose quality/value, to grow worse - DETERIORATE
to be a follower, to support - ADHERE
simple, trusting and naïve - INGENUOUS
extremely long and hard to follow - CONVOLUTED

3. SYNONYMS
hobble = limp
plunge = plummet
arduous = gruelling
snag = hitch
wayward = changeable

4. DEFINITIONS
to saunter - to walk in a slow and relaxed way, often in no particular direction
to dawdle - to do something or go somewhere very slowly, taking more time than is necessary
to nibble - to eat something by taking a lot of small bites
tenet - one of the principles on which a belief or theory is based
to deteriorate - to become worse
to convert - to bring over from one belief, view, or party to another
to trample - to step heavily and repeatedly with feet, causing damage or injury
outbreak - a time when something suddenly begins, especially a disease or something else dangerous or unpleasant
to beckon - to move your hand or head in a way that tells someone to come nearer
to strut - to walk in a proud way trying to look important

5. SENTENCES
origin – The fact that she was brought up in an alcoholic family environment was the origin of her emotional problems later in life.
to nag - He keeps nagging me to go and see the doctor as I’ve got a sharp pain around my heart area recently.
to lisp - I was teased a lot at school because I used to lisp.
to placate - The airline gave out free drinks in an effort to placate angry travelers.
to tiptoe - We waited until our daughter was asleep, then tiptoed quietly out of the room.
relapse – People that used to suffer from depression may experience a relapse if they are not given adequate support from their friends and family members.
to mutter - Meredith muttered something under her breath to the person next to her during the lecture.
to sip – The coffee is very hot, so sip it carefully.
to sneer – My friends sneer at my musical taste only because I love Justin Bieber.
to scamper - We paid up and then scampered through the rain to catch the bus home.

6. COLLOCATIONS
to flog yourself to death
to be off the hook
to be up to one’s neck
to take sth in one’s stride
to toss and turn
to find fault with sth
to come down with a disease
without a murmur
to feel a bit under the weather
to be on the mend

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What is Literature? 

17 Ocak 2013 Perşembe - Gönderen helaine zaman: 13:29

What is Literature?
If there is such a thing as literary theory, then it would seem obvious that there is something called literature which it is the theory of. We can begin, then, by raising the question: what is literature?

 There have been various attempts to define literature. You can define it, for example, as 'imaginative' writing in the sense of fiction - writing which is not literally true. But even the briefest reflection on what people com- monly include under the heading of literature suggests that this will not do. Seventeenth-century English literature includes Shakespeare, Webster, Marvell and Milton; but it also stretches to the essays of Francis Bacon, the sermons of John Donne, Bunyan's spiritual autobiography and whatever it was that Sir Thomas Browne wrote. It might even at a pinch be taken to encompass Hobbes's Leviathan or Clarendon's History of the Rebellion. French seventeenth-century literature contains, along with Corneille and Racine, La Rochefoucauld's maxims, Bossuet's funeral speeches, Boileau's treatise on poetry, Madame de Sevigne's letters to her daughter and the philosophy of Descartes and Pascal. Nineteenth-century English literature usually includes Lamb (though not Bentham), Macaulay (but not Marx), Mill (but not Darwin or Herbert Spencer).

A distinction between 'fact' and 'fiction', then, seems unlikely to get us very far, not least because the distinction itself is often a questionable one. It has been argued, for instance, that out own opposition between 'historical' and 'artistic' truth does not apply at all to the early Icelandic sagas.1 In the English late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the word 'novel' seems to have been used about both true and fictional events, and even news reports were hardly to be considered factual. Novels and news reports were

 Introduction: What is Literature?

neither clearly factual nor clearly fictional: our own sharp discriminations between these categories simply did not apply.2 Gibbon no doubt thought that he was writing the historical truth, and so perhaps did the authors of Genesis, but they are now read as 'fact' by some and 'fiction' by others; Newman certainly thought his theological meditations were true but they are now for many readers 'literature'. Moreover, if 'literature' includes much 'factual' writing, it also excludes quite a lot of fiction. Superman comic and Mills and Boon novels are fictional but not generally regarded as litera- ture, and certainly not as Literature. If literature is 'creative' or 'imaginative' writing, does this imply that history, philosophy and natural science are uncreative andunimaginative?

Perhaps one needs a different kind of approach altogether. Perhaps litera- ture is definable not according to whether it is fictional or 'imaginative', but because it uses language in peculiar ways. On this theory, literature is a kind of writing which, in the words of the Russian critic Roman Jakobson, represents an 'organized violence committed on ordinary speech'. Literature transforms and intensifies ordinary language, deviates systematically from everyday speech. If you approach me at a bus stop and murmur 'Thou still unravished bride of quietness,' then I am instantly aware that I am in the presence of the literary. I know this because the texture, rhythm and res- onance of your words are in excess of their abstractable meaning - or, as the linguists might more technically put it, there is a disproportion between the signifiers and the signifieds. Your language draws attention to itself, flaunts its material being, as statements like 'Don't you know the drivers are on strike?' do not.

This, in effect, was the definition of the 'literary' advanced by the Russian formalists, who included in their ranks Viktor Shklovsky, Roman Jakobson, Osip Brik, Yury Tynyanov, Boris Eichenbaum and Boris Tomashevsky. The Formalists emerged in Russia in the years before the 1917 Bolshevik revolution, and flourished throughout the 1920s, until they were effectively silenced by Stalinism. A militant, polemical group of critics, they rejected the quasi-mystical symbolist doctrines which had influenced literary criticism before them, and in a practical, scientific spirit shifted attention to the material reality of the literary text itself. Criticism should dissociate art from mystery and concern itself with how literary texts actually worked: literature was not pseudo-religion or psychology or sociology but a particu- lar organization of language. It had its own specific laws, structures and devices, which were to be studied in themselves rather than reduced to something else. The literary work was neither a vehicle for ideas, areflection of social reality nor the incarnation of some transcendental truth: it was a

Introduction: What is Literature?

material fact, whose functioning could be analysed rather as one could examine a machine. It was made of words, not of objects or feelings, and it was a mistake to see it as the expression of an author's mind. Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, Osip Brik once airily remarked, would have been written even if Pushkin had not lived.
Formalism was essentially the application of linguistics to the study of literature; and because the linguistics in question were of a formal kind, concerned with the structures of language rather than with what one might actually say, the Formalists passed over the analysis of literary 'content' (where one might always be tempted into psychology or sociology) for the study of literary form. Far from seeing form as the expression of content, they stood the relationship on its head: content was merely the 'motivation' of form, an occasion or convenience for a particular kind of formal exercise. Don Quixote is not 'about' the character of that name: the character is just a device for holding together different kinds of narrative technique. Animal Farm for the Formalists would not be an allegory of Stalinism; on the contrary, Stalinism would simply provide a useful opportunity for the con- struction of an allegory. It was this perverse insistence which won for the Formalists their derogatory name from their antagonists; and though they did not deny that art had a relation to social reality - indeed some of them were closely associated with the Bolsheviks - they provocatively claimed that this relation was not the critic's business.

The Formalists started out by seeing the literary work as a more or less arbitrary assemblage of 'devices', and only later came to see these devices as interrelated elements or 'functions' within a total textual system. 'Devices' included sound, imagery, rhythm, syntax, metre, rhyme, narrative tech- niques, in fact the whole stock of formal literary elements; and what all of these elements had in common was their 'estranging' or 'defamiliarizing' effect. What was specific to literary language, what distinguished it from other forms of discourse, was that it 'deformed' ordinary language in various ways. Under the pressure of literary devices, ordinary language was intensi- fied, condensed, twisted, telescoped, drawn out, turned on its head. It was language 'made strange'; and because of this estrangement, the everyday world was also suddenly made unfamiliar. In the routines of everyday speech, our perceptions of and responses to reality become stale, blunted, or, as the Formalists would say, 'automatized'. Literature, by forcing us into a dramatic awareness of language, refreshes these habitual responses and renders objects more 'perceptible'. By having to grapple with language in a more strenuous, self-conscious way than usual, the world which that lan- guage contains is vividly renewed. The poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins

Introduction: What is Literature?

might provide a particularly graphic example of this. Literary discourse estranges or alienates ordinary speech, but in doing so, paradoxically, brings us into a fuller, more intimate possession of experience. Most of the time we breathe in air without being conscious of it: like language, it is the very medium in which we move. But if the air is suddenly thickened or infected we are forced to attend to our breathing with new vigilance, and the effect of this may be a heightened experience of our bodily life. We read a scribbled note from a friend without paying much attention to its narrative structure; but if a story breaks off and begins again, switches constantly from one narrative level to another and delays its climax to keep us in suspense, we become freshly conscious of how it is constructed at the same time as our engagement with it may be intensified. The story, as the Formalists would argue, uses 'impeding' or 'retarding' devices to hold our attention; and in literary language, these devices are 'laid bare'. It was this which moved Viktor Shklovsky to remark mischievously of Laurence Sterne's Tristram Shandy, a novel which impedes its own story-line so much that it hardly gets off the ground, that it was 'the most typical novel in world literature'.

The Formalists, then, saw literary language as a set of deviations from a norm, a kind of linguistic violence: literature is a 'special' kind of language, in contrast to the 'ordinary' language we commonly use. But to spot a deviation implies being able to identify the norm from which it swerves. Though 'ordinary language' is a concept beloved of some Oxford philoso- phers, the ordinary language of Oxford philosophers has little in common with the ordinary language of Glaswegian dockers. The language both social groups use to write love letters usually differs from the way they talk to the local vicar. The idea that there is a single 'normal' language, a common currency shared equally by all members of society, is an illusion. Any actual language consists of a highly complex range of discourses, differentiated according to class, region, gender, status and so on, which can by no means be neatly unified into a single homogeneous linguistic community. One person's norm may be another's deviation: 'ginneP for 'alleyway' may be poetic in Brighton but ordinary language in Barnsley. Even the most 'pro- saic' text of the fifteenth century may sound 'poetic' to us today because of its archaism. If we were to stumble across an isolated scrap of writing from some long-vanished civilization, we could not tell whether it was 'poetry' or not merely by inspecting it, since we might have no access to that society's 'ordinary' discourses; and even if further research were to reveal that it was 'deviatory', this would still not prove that it was poetry as not all linguistic deviations are poetic. Slang, for example. We would not be able to tell just by looking at it that it was not a piece of 'realist' literature, without much

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more information about the way it actually functioned as a piece of writing within the society in question.
It is not that the Russian Formalists did not realize all this. They recog- nized that norms and deviations shifted around from one social or historical context to another - that 'poetry' in this sense depends on where you happen to be standing at the time. The fact that a piece of language was 'estranging' did not guarantee that it was always and everywhere so: it was estranging only against a certain normative linguistic background, and if this altered then the writing might cease to be perceptible as literary. If everyone used phrases like 'unravished bride of quietness' in ordinary pub conversation, this kind of language might cease to be poetic. For the Formalists, in other words, 'literariness' was a function of the differential relations between one sort of discourse and another; it was not an eternally given property. They were not out to define 'literature', but 'literariness' - special uses of lan- guage, which could be found in 'literary' texts but also in many places outside them. Anyone who believes that 'literature' can be defined by such special uses of language has to face the fact that there is more metaphor in Manchester than there is in Marvell. There is no 'literary' device - metonymy, synecdoche, litotes, chiasmus and so on - which is not quite intensively used in daily discourse.
Nevertheless, the Formalists still presumed that 'making strange' was the essence of the literary. It was just that they relativized this use of language, saw it as a matter of contrast between one type of speech and another. But what if I were to hear someone at the next pub table remark 'This is aw- fully squiggly handwriting!' Is this 'literary' or 'non-literary' language? As a matter of fact it is 'literary' language, because it comes from Knut Hamsun's novel Hunger.But how do I knowthat it is literary?It doesn't, after all, focus any particular attention on itself as a verbal performance. One answer to the question of how I know that this is literary is that it comes from Knut Hamsun's novel Hunger. It is part of a text which I read as 'fictional', which announces itself as a 'novel', which may be put on university literature syllabuses and so on. The context tells me that it is literary; but the language itself has no inherent properties or qualities which might distinguish it from other kinds of discourse, and someone might well say this in a pub without being admired for their literary dexterity. To think of literature as the Formalists do is really to think of all literature uspoetry. Significantly, when the Formalists came to consider prose writing, they often simply extended to it the kinds of technique they had used with poetry. But literature is usually judged to contain much besides poetry - to include, for example, realist or naturalistic writing which is not linguistically self-conscious or self-

Introduction: What is Literature?

exhibiting in any striking way. People sometimes call writing 'fine' precisely because it doesn't draw undue attention to itself: they admire its laconic plainness or low-keyed sobriety. And what about jokes, football chants and slogans, newspaper headlines, advertisements, which are often verbally flamboyant but not generally classified as literature?
Another problem with the 'estrangement' case is that there is no kind of writing which cannot, given sufficient ingenuity, be read as estranging. Consider a prosaic, quite unambiguous statement like the one sometimes seen in the London Underground system: 'Dogs must be carried on the escalator.' This is not perhaps quite as unambiguous as it seems at first sight: does it mean that you must carry a dog on the escalator? Are you likely to be banned from the escalator unless you can find some stray mongrel to clutch in your arms on the way up? Many apparently straightforward notices contain such ambiguities: 'Refuse to be put in this basket,' for instance, or the British road-sign 'Way Out' as read by a Californian. But even leaving such troubling ambiguities aside, it is surely obvious that the underground notice could be read as literature. One could let oneself be arrested by the abrupt, minatory staccato of the first ponderous monosyllables; find one's mind drifting, by the time it had reached the rich allusiveness of'carried', to suggestive resonances of helping lame dogs through life; and perhaps even detect in the very lilt and inflection of the word 'escalator' a miming of the rolling, up-and-down motion of the thing itself. This may wellibe a fruitless sort of pursuit, but it is not significantly more fruitless than claiming to hear the cut and thrust of the rapiers in some poetic description of a duel, and it at least has the advantage of suggesting that 'literature' may be at least as much a question of what people do to writing as of what writing does to them.

 But even if someone were to read the notice in this way, it would still be a matter of reading it as poetry, which is only part of what is usually included in literature. Let us therefore consider another way of 'misreading' the sign which might move us a little beyond this. Imagine a late-night drunk dou- bled over the escalator handrail who reads the notice with laborious atten- tiveness for several minutes and then mutters to himself 'How true!' What kind of mistake is occurring here? What the drunk is doing, in fact, is taking the sign as some statement of general, even cosmic significance. By applying certain conventions of reading to its words, he prises them loose from their immediate context and generalizes them beyond their pragmatic purpose to something of wider and probably deeper import. This would certainly seem to be one operation involved in what people call literature. When the poet tells us that his love is like a red rose, we know by the very fact that he puts

Introduction: What is Literature?

this statement in metre that we are not supposed to ask whether he actually had a lover who for some bizarre reason seemed to him to resemble a rose. He is telling us something about women and love in general. Literature, then, we might say, is 'non-pragmatic' discourse: unlike biology textbooks and notes to the milkman it serves no immediate practical purpose, but is to be taken as referring to a general state of affairs. Sometimes, though not always, it may employ peculiar language as though to make this fact obvious - tosignalthatwhatisatstakeisawayoftalkingaboutawoman,ratherthan any particular real-life woman. This focusing on the way of talking, rather than on the reality of what is talked about, is sometimes taken to indicate that we mean by literature a kind of self-referential language, a language which talks about itself.

There are, however, problems with this way of denning literature too. For one thing, it would probably have come as a surprise to George Orwell to hear that his essays were to be read as though the topics he discussed were less important than the way he discussed them. In much that is classified as literature, the truth-value and practical relevance of what is said is consid- ered important to the overall effect. But even if treating discourse 'non- pragmatically' is part of what is meant by 'literature', then it follows from this 'definition' that literature cannot in fact be 'objectively' defined. It leaves the definition of literature up to how somebody decides to read, not to the nature of what is written. There are certain kinds of writing - poems, plays, novels - which are fairly obviously intended to be 'non-pragmatic' in this sense, but this does not guarantee that they will actually be read in this way. I might well read Gibbon's account of the Roman empire not because I am misguided enough to believe that it will be reliably informative about ancient Rome but because I enjoy Gibbon's prose style, or revel in images of human corruption whatever their historical source. But I might read Robert Burns's poem because it is not clear to me, as a Japanese horticulturalist, whether or not the red rose flourished in eighteenth-century Britain. This, it will be said, is not reading it 'as literature'; but am I reading Orwell's essays as literature only if I generalize what he says about the Spanish civil war to some cosmic utterance about human life? It is true that many of the works studied as literature in academic institutions were 'constructed' to be read as literature, but it is also true that many of them were not. A piece of writing may start off life as history or philosophy and then come to be ranked as literature; or it may start off as literature and then come to be valued for its archaeological significance. Some texts are born literary, some achieve literariness, and some have literariness thrust upon them. Breeding in this respect may count for a good deal more than birth. What matters may not be

Introduction: What is Literature?

where you came from but how people treat you. If they decide that you are literature then it seems that you are, irrespective of what you thought you were.
In this sense, one can think of literature less as some inherent quality or set of qualities displayed by certain kinds of writing all the way from Beowulf to Virginia Woolf, than as a number of ways in which people relate themselves to writing. It would not be easy to isolate, from all that has been variously called 'literature', some constant set of inherent features. In fact it would be as impossible as trying to identify the single distinguishing feature which all games have in common. There is no 'essence' of literature whatsoever. Any bit of writing may be read 'non-pragmatically', if that is what reading a text as literature means, just as any writingmay be read 'poetically'. If I pore over the railway timetable not to discover a train connection but to stimulate in myself general reflections on the speed and complexity of modern existence, then I might be said to be reading it as literature. John M. Ellis has argued that the term 'literature' operates rather like the word 'weed': weeds are not particular kinds of plant, but just any kind of plant which for some reason or another a gardener does not what around.3 Perhaps 'literature' means some- thing like the opposite: any kind of writing which for some reason or another somebody values highly. As the philosophers might say, 'literature' and 'weed' arefunctional rather than ontological terms: they tell us about what we do, not about the fixed being of things. They tell us about the role of a text or a thistle in a social context, its relations with and differences from its surroundings, the ways it behaves, the purposes it may be put to and the human practices clustered around it. 'Literature' is in this sense a purely formal, empty sort of definition. Even if we claim that it is a non-pragmatic treatment of language, we have still not arrived at an 'essence' of literature because this is also so of other linguistic practices such as jokes. In any case, it is far from clear that we can discriminate neatly between 'practical' and 'non-practical' ways of relating ourselves to language. Reading a novel for pleasure obviously differs from reading a road sign for information, but how about reading a biology textbook to improve your mind? Is that a 'pragmatic' treatment of language or not? In many societies, 'literature' has served highly practical functions such as religious ones; distinguishing sharply between 'practical' and 'non-practical' may only be possible in a society like ours, where literature has ceased to have much practical function at all. We may be offering as a general definition a sense of the 'literary' which is in fact historically specific.

We have still not discovered the secret, then, of why Lamb, Macaulay and Mill are literature but not, generally speaking, Bentham, Marx and Darwin.

Introduction: What is Literature?

Perhaps the simple answer is that the first three are examples of 'fine writing', whereas the last three are not. This answer has the disadvantage of being largely untrue, at least in my judgement, but it has the advantage of
suggesting that by and large people term 'literature' writing which they think is good. An obvious objection to this is that if it were entirely true there would be no such thing as 'bad literature'. I may consider Lamb and Macaulay overrated, but that does not necessarily mean that I stop regarding them as literature. You may consider Raymond Chandler 'good of his kind', but not exactly literature. On the other hand, if Macaulay were a really bad writer - if he had no grasp at all of grammar and seemed interested in nothing but white mice - then people might well not call his work literature at all, even bad literature. V alue-judgements would certainly seem to have a lot to do with what is judged literature and what isn't - not necessarily in the sense that writing has to be 'fine' to be literary, but that it has to be of the kind that is judged fine: it may be an inferior example of a generally valued mode. Nobody would bother to say that a bus ticket was an example of inferior literature, but someone might well say that the poetry of Ernest Dowson was. The term 'fine writing', or belles lettres, is in this sense ambiguous: it denotes a sort of writing which is generally highly regarded, while not necessarily committing you to the opinion that a particular specimen of it is 'good'.

With this reservation, the suggestion that 'literature' is a highly valued kind of writing is an illuminating one. But it has one fairly devastating consequence. It means that we can drop once and for all the illusion that the category 'literature' is 'objective', in the sense of being eternally given and immutable. Anything can be literature, and anything which is regarded as unalterably and unquestionably literature - Shakespeare, for example - can cease to be literature. Any belief that the study of literature is the study of a stable, well-definable entity, as entomology is the study of insects, can be abandoned as a chimera. Some kinds of fiction are literature and some are not; some literature is fictional and some is not; some literature is verbally self-regarding, while some highly-wrought rhetoric is not literature. Litera- ture, in the sense of a set of works of assured and unalterable value, distin- guished by certain shared inherent properties, does not exist. When I use the words 'literary' and 'literature' from here on in this book, then, I place them under an invisible crossing-out mark, to indicate that these terms will not really do but that we have no better ones at the moment.
The reason why it follows from the definition of literature as highly val- ued writing that it is not a stable entity is that value-judgements are notor- iously variable. 'Times change, values don't,' announces an advertisement

Introduction: What is Literature?

for a daily newspaper, as though we still believed in killing off infirm infants or putting the mentally ill on public show. Just as people may treat a work as philosophy in one century and as literature in the next, or vice versa, so they may change their minds about what writing they consider valuable. They may even change their minds about the grounds they use for judgingwhat is valuable and what is not. This, as I have suggested, does not necessarily mean that they will refuse the title of literature to a work which they have come to deem inferior: they may still call it literature, meaning roughly that it belongs to the type of writing which they generally value. But it does mean that the so-called 'literary canon', the unquestioned 'great tradition' of the 'national literature', has to be recognized as a construct, fashioned by particu- lar people for particular reasons at a certain time. There is no such thing as a literary work or tradition which is valuable in itself, regardless of what anyone might have said or come to say about it. 'Value' is a transitive term: it means whatever is valued by certain people in specific situations, accord- ing to particular criteria and in the light of given purposes. It is thus quite possible that, given a deep enough transformation of our history, we may in the future produce a society which is unable to get anything at all out of Shakespeare. His works might simply seem desperately alien, full of styles of thought and feeling which such a society found limited or irrelevant. In such a situation, Shakespeare would be no more valuable than much present-day graffiti. And though many people would consider such a social condition tragically impoverished, it seems to me dogmatic not to entertain the possi- bility that it might arise rather from a general human enrichment. Karl Marx was troubled by the question of why ancient Greek art retained an 'eternal charm', even though the social conditions which produced it had long passed; but how do we know that it will remain 'eternally' charming, since history has not yet ended? Let us imagine that by dint of some deft archaeo- logical research we discovered a great deal more about what ancient Greek tragedy actually meant to its original audiences, recognized that these con- cerns were utterly remote from out own, and began to read the plays again in the light of this deepened knowledge. One result might be that we stopped enjoying them. We might come to see that we had enjoyed them previously because we were unwittingly reading them in the light of our own preoccu- pations; once this became less possible, the drama might cease to speak at all significantly to us.

The fact that we alwaysinterpret literary works to some extent in the light of our own concerns —indeed that in one sense of 'our own concerns' we are incapableofdoinganythingelse- mightbeonereasonwhycertainworksof literature seem to retain their value across the centuries. It may be, of course,

Introduction: What is Literature?

that we still share many preoccupations with the work itself; but it may also be that people have not actually been valuing the 'same' work at all, even though they may think they have. 'Our' Homer is not identical with the Homer of the Middle Ages, nor 'our' Shakespeare with that of his contem- poraries; it is rather that different historical periods have constructed a 'different' Homer and Shakespeare for their own purposes, and found in these texts elements to value or devalue, though not necessarily the same ones. All literary works, in other words, are 'rewritten', if only uncon- sciously, by the societies which read them; indeed there is no reading of a work which is not also a 're-writing'. No work, and no current evaluation of it, can simply be extended to new groups of people without being changed, perhaps almost unrecognizably, in the process; and this is one reason why what counts as literature is a notably unstable affair.

I do not mean that it is unstable because value-judgements are 'subjec- tive'. According to this view, the world is divided between solid facts 'out there' like Grand Central station, and arbitrary value-judgements 'in here' such as liking bananas or feeling that the tone of a Yeats poem veers from defensive hectoring to grimly resilient resignation. Facts are public and unimpeachable, values are private and gratuitous. There is an obvious dif- ference between recounting a fact, such as 'This cathedral wasbuilt in 1612,' and registering a value-judgement, such as 'This cathedral is a magnificent specimen of baroque architecture.' But suppose I made the first kind of statement while showing an overseas visitor around England, and found that it puzzled her considerably. Why, she might ask, do you keep telling me the dates of the foundation of all these buildings? Why this obsession with origins? In the society I live in, she might go on, we keep no record at all of such events: we classify our buildings instead according to whether they face north-west or south-east. What this might do would be to demonstrate part of the unconscious system of value-judgements which underlies my own descriptive statements. Such value-judgements are not necessarily of the same kind as 'This cathedral is a magnificent specimen of baroque architec- ture,' but they are value-judgements none the less, and no factual pro- nouncement I make can escape them. Statements of fact are after all statements, which presumes a number of questionable judgements: that those statements are worth making, perhaps more worth making than certain others, that I am the sort of person entitled to make them and perhaps able to guarantee their truth, that you are the kind of person worth making them to, that something useful is accomplished by making them, and so on. A pub conversation may well transmit information, but what also bulks large in such dialogue is a strong element of what linguists would call the 'phatic', 

Introduction: What is Literature?

concern with the act of communication itself. In chatting to you about the weather I am also signalling that I regard conversation with you as valuable, that I consider you a worthwhile person to talk to, that I am not myself anti-social or about to embark on a detailed critique of your personal appearance.

In this sense, there is no possibility of a wholly disinterested statement. Of course stating when a cathedral was built is reckoned to be more disinterested in our own culture than passing an opinion about its architecture, but one could also imagine situations in which the former statement would be more 'value-laden' than the latter. Perhaps 'baroque' and 'magnificent' have come to be more or less synonymous, whereas only a stubborn rump of us cling to the belief that the date when a building was founded is significant, and my statement is taken as a coded way of signalling this partisanship. All of our descriptive statements move within an often invisible network of value-categories, and indeed without such catego- ries we would have nothing to say to each other at all. It is not just as though we have something called factual knowledge which may then be distorted by particular interests and judgements, although this is certainly possible; it is also that without particular interests we would have no knowledge at all, because we would not see the point of bothering to get to know anything. Interests are constitutive of our knowledge, not merely prejudices which imperil it. The claim that knowledge should be 'value-free' is itself a value-judgement.

It may well be that a liking for bananas is a merely private matter, though this is in fact questionable. A thorough analysis of my tastes in food would probably reveal how deeply relevant they are to certain formative experi- ences in early childhood, to my relations with my parents and siblings and to a good many other cultural factors which are quite as social and 'non- subjective' as railway stations. This is even more true of that fundamental structure of beliefs and interests which I am born into as a member of a particular society, such as the belief that I should try to keep in good health, that differences of sexual role are rooted in human biology or that human beings are more important than crocodiles. We may disagree on this or that, but we can only do so because we share certain 'deep' ways of seeing and valuing which are bound up with our social life, and which could not be changed without transforming that life. Nobody will penalize me heavily if I dislike a particular Donne poem, but if I argue that Donne is not literature at all then in certain circumstances I might risk losing my job. I am free to vote Labour or Conservative, but if I try to act on the belief that this choice itself merely masks a deeper prejudice - the prejudice that the meaning of

Introduction: What is Literature? 

democracy is confined to putting a cross on a ballot paper every few years — then in certain unusual circumstances I might end up in prison.

The largely concealed structure of values which informs and underlies our factual statements is part of what is meant by 'ideology'. By 'ideology' I mean, roughly, the ways in which what we say and believe connects with the power-structure and power-relations of the society we live in. It follows from such a rough definition of ideology that not all of our underlying judgements and categories can usefully be said to be ideological. It is deeply ingrained in us to imagine ourselves moving forwards into the future (at least one other society sees itself as moving backwards into it), but though this way of seeing may connect significantly with the power-structure of our society, it need not alwaysand everywhere do so. I do not mean by 'ideology' simply the deeply entrenched, often unconscious beliefs which people hold; I mean more particularly those modes of feeling, valuing, perceiving and believing which have some kind of relation to the maintenance and repro- duction of social power. The fact that such beliefs are by no means merely private quirks may be illustrated by a literary example.

In his famous study Practical Criticism (1929), the Cambridge critic I. A. Richards sought to demonstrate just how whimsical and subjective literary value-judgements could actually be by giving his undergraduates a set of poems, withholding from them the titles and authors' names, and asking them to evaluate them. The resulting judgements, notoriously, were highly variable: time-honoured poets were marked down and obscure authors cel- ebrated. To my mind, however, much the most interesting aspect of this project, and one apparently quite invisible to Richards himself, is just how tight a consensus of unconscious valuationsunderlies these particular differ- ences of opinion. Reading Richards' undergraduates' accounts of literary works, one is struck by the habits of perception and interpretation which they spontaneously share - what they expect literature to be, what assump- tions they bring to a poem and what fulfilments they anticipate they will derive from it. None of this is really surprising: for all the participants in this experiment were, presumably, young, white, upper- or upper-middle-class, privately educated English people of the 1920s, and how they responded to a poem depended on a good deal more than purely 'literary' factors. Their critical responses were deeply entwined with their broader prejudices and beliefs. This is not a matter of blame: there is no critical response which is not so entwined, and thus no such thing as a 'pure' literary critical judge- ment or interpretation. If anybody is to be blamed it is I. A. Richards himself, who as a young, white, upper-middle-class male Cambridge don was unable to objectify a context of interests which he himself largely shared, 

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