Socrates Updated:
Using the Socratic Method to Foster Scholarly Publication by Students

Robert C. Evans and David V. Witkosky
Auburn University Montgomery 

PART ONE: OVERVIEW OF RESEARCH (David V. Witkosky)

Introduction
     When I was approached by Robert Evans to work with him on a presentation about a modified form of the Socratic method and its applicability to student-authored scholarly publications, I assumed that the subject matter would be uncontroversial and easily defined, researched, and illustrated. After all, Socrates is a mainstay in texts concerning philosophy (Russell, 1945). And references in pedagogical materials abound concerning the Socratic method of teaching (e.g., Copeland, 2005; Elder & Paul, 1998; Seeskin, 1987). In addition, current thought on educational practices in higher education strongly recommends involving students in individual or collaborative, faculty-sponsored research that will be accessible to a larger audience (Evans & Witkosky, 2003). However, as we began to look into the topic, we discovered that there was a lack of agreement on the definition of Socratic teaching, strenuous debate over its advantages and disadvantages, and an unclear picture of how to involve students in Socratic-style publication projects. Nevertheless, after a period of study, the spirit of the Socratic method and its relevance to today’s educational environment became very apparent. In this paper, we will define the Socratic method, in general terms, and discuss its role in a twenty-first century college or university academic environment; we will also describe examples of past and present faculty-student research inspired by the Socratic method.
Socrates and the Socratic method
     When investigating the Socratic method, one finds reference to a host of Greek philosophers, especially to Plato (Russell, 1945). Indeed, some scholars who claim to be writing about pedagogical technique spend more time on critiquing philosophical thought. Much ink has been spilled about the relationship between Plato’s and Socrates’ philosophies and methodologies, and many writers portray Socrates and Plato as heirs to the tradition of philosophers such as Pythagoras and Parmenides, thinkers who were concerned with the “nature of reality,” the “scope of rational knowledge,” and “the role of God” or the gods (Ross, 1993, p. 11). While scholars may disagree about the philosophical views of Socrates and Plato, they generally agree that Socrates employed a strategy derived from, or related to, methods used by the Sophists, Athenian teachers of the late fifth and fourth centuries B.C. who trained students in public speaking, debate, and law and were especially known for their ability to argue both sides of any question or issue and for their powers of persuasion (Goldman, 1984; Ross, 1993). The historical Socrates supposedly followed a three-step process when working with students (Eckerson, et al., 2000; Seiple, 1985). First, Socrates conducted a rigorous question-and-answer session in order to create a state of confusion or perplexity in which students recognized weaknesses in their understanding of certain philosophical issues. Second, once Socrates created this state of “elenchus,” he enabled his listeners to delve within themselves and find knowledge that was already present—“from previous incarnations and previous visits to the eternal world of the Forms” (Eckerson et al., 2000, p. 85). Third, after students had thus acquired or re-acquired certain knowledge, Socrates worked to link these newly won insights to students’ existing understanding of the world and its phenomena.
Socrates updated
     For our purposes, Bob and I define “Socratic method,” in broad terms, as a valuable teaching tool with which instructors encourage a provocative discussion by posing thoughtful questions and then gradually enable students to make generalizations based on specific observations. The new insights are reinforced by applying them to new and different situations. Everyone—teacher and student—participates in the process and grows intellectually. We realize, however, that for many people the mention of the Socratic method conjures up the image of Professor Kingsfield, the law school professor on The Paper Chase, a popular film and television series from the 1970s. Kingsfield appeared to enjoy creating a tense atmosphere in the lecture hall as he called on students randomly, expecting calm, precise responses to questions concerning previously prepared reading assignments. Rather than finding this technique invigorating and effective, critics claim that practitioners like Kingsfield are being methodologically dogmatic (Eckerson et al., 2000; Goldman, 1984; Mell, 2002). According to detractors, Socratic teachers feel that one method should work for all students; if there is a problem, Socratic instructors allegedly think that it is the learner’s fault. Moreover, critics accuse passionate Socratic teachers of committing what some consider to be the most serious transgression in education: not making every accommodation possible to reach learners.
     While it is true that United States law schools, strongholds of the Socratic method, place great value on mental dexterity, clarity, and a certain psychological or emotional toughness, the Socratic method as it is practiced in other environments is considerably less confrontational. Unlike Kingsfield, many educators who use this method are regarded as facilitators rather than as tyrants and as fellow-learners rather than as fonts of wisdom. Indeed, the classroom is felt to be a welcoming, stimulating environment where energy comes from the excitement of discovery. In an open-ended fashion, the Dictionary of Education characterizes the Socratic approach as “a method of teaching whereby the instructor asks questions and leads the students, through a shaping of their responses and subsequent discussion, to an understanding of the information being taught” (Shafritz, Koeppe, & Soper, 1988, p. 438). The ambiguity of phrases such as “asks questions and leads the students” and “shaping of their responses” permits the confrontational style in law schools, but actual classroom practices in other disciplines reveal a much more benevolent relationship between instructor and student and a much less combative atmosphere during class time. Indeed, most instructors use discrimination and restraint when choosing occasions to employ the Socratic method (Dallmann-Jones, 1994). Instructional activities today appear to follow a pattern established by Socrates in the fifth century B.C. and described by Cecil F. Lavell (1913). During regular class time, one or more students might, for example, make a subjective comment that sparks debate and lends itself to scrutiny. Communication in the form of a give-and-take conversation follows, and the instructor guides the students through a critical evaluation of the thought process and philosophical belief system that led to the view expressed. Studies show that instructors prefer to use the Socratic method on a limited basis and do not hesitate to give students some preparatory information about the teaching style (Overholser, 1992). Willing to shift gears if the technique is not working, most instructors refuse to sacrifice the lesson content and objectives for matters of pedagogical style.
     Many practitioners of the Socratic approach assume that much knowledge lies dormant within the minds of students and that students will become aware of this hidden accumulation of insights and learning through dialectic conversations (Bowman, 1985). Using specific linguistic and rhetorical skills, instructors guide students from ignorance to awareness, and in challenging, thought-provoking dialogues, learners grow to see patterns and connections after considering specific observations (Dallmann-Jones, 1994). Each teacher becomes a “gnat who [stings] his pupil’s mind into activity, the spiritual midwife who [helps], not to create, but to bring true knowledge and love of truth to the birth” (Lavell, 1913, p. 362). In particular, the Socratic approach is organized as a type of progression toward insight and recognition through a dialogue between a teacher and one or more students (Overholser, 1992). It embraces a reflective attitude toward knowledge and rejects a passive absorption of facts and details. It is important to note that the roles of the printed and spoken word are carefully delineated. Although printed resources are useful for finding facts and examples, oral communication is considered primary since it is dynamic and provides immediate feedback. Finally, knowledge is viewed in a very democratic manner. All members of a particular class are meant to be involved in the intellectual exchange.
The Socratic method: Alleviating educational woes of the twenty-first century
     Response to the Socratic method has not been uniform within academic circles. It is often felt to be most suitable for the upper grades and the post-secondary environment. Some writers fear that exposing children to “upsetting” and “unnerving” questioning in which they are asked to investigate the “nature and value” of their culture can “handicap the young” and “threaten the continuity of society” (Goldman, 1984, p. 60). These critics feel that the primary role of schools is to pass on national cultural heritage to young learners, and they maintain that inquiry and analysis are appropriate only at a later time. Indeed, Louis Goldman writes:

Without change a society will stagnate; and the energies of its citizens may turn inward, destructively. But every society also needs stability and continuity, and the absence of these will generate anarchy. The two are part of an organic unity, and a healthy society needs to find a middle way. Continuity ensures structure, without which nothing can function, grow, or develop. (1984, p. 60)

Other writers reject the Socratic method even in higher education. These critics label the method as inefficient and ineffective, claiming that practitioners waste instructional time and that students must hire tutors or purchase supplementary study guides to get information that should have been presented in class (Eckerson et al., 2000; Mell, 2002).
     Detractors of the Socratic method are in the minority. It is much more common to find mention of the method’s educational benefits in articles discussing this strategy—especially in reference to higher education (Kraft, 1985; Toppins, 1987; Zachry, 1985). Much of the attraction of the Socratic method comes as a result of frustration with the current state of university education (Picou, Cantrell, & Barr, 1998; Ross, 1993). In general, it is felt that instructors turn too readily to books and handouts and that students are evaluated solely according to performance on written work, e.g., reports, essays, and tests. The human element in knowledge collection, absorption, and distribution seems to be ignored. Moreover, commentators note that students are often able to succeed if they memorize facts and statistics and parrot information back on demand; questions have been raised about whether this ability is, in any way, a sign of intellectual development. Also, some observers feel that the concept of the university as a place of intellectual exchange has suffered because students tend to work alone and share the results of their research only with their instructors.
     Recent proposals for employing the Socratic method in instructional settings reflect a change in attitude of the general population toward education (Eggen & Kauchak, 1988; Lambright, 1995; Lee et al., 2004; Picou, Cantrell, & Barr, 1998; Ross, 1993). First, fewer and fewer people subscribe to the theory that schools and universities exist solely to supply information that is to be absorbed by learners. Education is thought to take place when teachers impart life-long learning skills. Second, society is no longer willing to embrace an authoritarian view of education in which learners accept what teachers say without skepticism. At all levels of education, learners have grown accustomed to entering into a dialogue with instructors, expressing opinion, and receiving guidance. Third, schools and universities are being evaluated by how well they prepare learners for various careers and life’s major events; success means having graduates who have the necessary subject mastery, social adeptness, physical skills, and desirable character traits. In general, a balance is being sought between the idea of academic inquiry as a solitary endeavor and intellectual and social development as a group activity. George MacDonald Ross phrases the benefit of the Socratic method in terms of how education can answer the needs of a new era:

Both industry and society as a whole need as many people as possible who are not merely knowledgeable in a wider or narrower range of academic and technical disciplines, but who are reflective and critical about what they know, and can continue to learn autonomously outside formal education; who can apply their knowledge to practical situations; who are articulate in speech as well as in writing; who can co-operate with others in solving problems; who can see things from different perspectives, and are willing to revise their own concepts, beliefs and attitudes; and who take a responsible and moral attitude to all that they do. (1993, p. 22)

Conclusion
     Thus far we have concentrated on theoretical issues related to the Socratic method. Many authors say little about the actual forms that classroom activities and assignments might take. Furthermore, although the goal of this approach is to lead students to in-depth knowledge and profound insights—as opposed to retention of facts and unconnected pieces of information, one finds little assistance for turning uninspired term papers and book reports into meaningful investigations and analyses that can be shared with others for the profit of all. In Part Two, Robert Evans will discuss how to apply a modified form of the Socratic method to collaborative written assignments; he will describe several such efforts and provide a first-hand account of how the Socratic method has enriched the intellectual lives of faculty and students.

PART TWO: PERSONAL NARRATIVE (Robert C. Evans)

     The opening portion of this paper offers a survey of the Socratic method (and of various ways in which that concept has been defined, criticized, defended, and transformed) from the time of the ancient Greeks down to the present day. My own contribution to our project will be much more circumscribed. I will simply try to relate how I have personally used the “Socratic method” (very broadly defined) in my classrooms, and particularly how I have tried to use that “method” (by which I basically mean the method of constantly asking students specific questions, as opposed to merely lecturing) to promote student contributions to published research. I believe that the processes I have employed do indeed (at least in most cases) conform to the broad general ideals and procedures originally outlined by Socrates, but I must confess that I am less concerned with being orthodox (or “Socratically correct”) than with being pragmatically effective. 
     Perhaps I should indicate how and why I first became interested in the “Socratic method.” During my undergraduate studies, I personally found most stimulating the classes in which students were encouraged to think for themselves, respond constantly to questions, and debate their conclusions – by which I mean debate not only with one another and with their teachers, but even and perhaps especially with themselves. On the other hand, the most tedious classes were usually those in which a professor simply stood at the front of a room (usually a very large room crammed to capacity) and read monotonously from ancient notes. That method of teaching struck me as both boring and incredibly inefficient: I did not need a professor to do my reading for me. I wanted teachers who challenged me to think for myself and on my feet, and fortunately I had many of these.
     When I arrived at graduate school I was fortunate to study with one of the most eminent scholars in his field – a man so famous that his last name had become an adjective, used to describe the particular approach he had spent a lifetime developing, advocating, and defending against attack. I eagerly signed up for his class, but I soon became disenchanted, because even though I could see the merit in his ideas, I also came to feel that he was, unfortunately, intolerant and highly defensive in presenting them. Questions from students were often seen as threats; oracular pronouncements were delivered; skepticism and opposition were scorned. Partly this method of delivery was meant to be provocative and stimulating, and partly, I suspect, it was done in a spirit of fun I could not then appreciate. However, my exposure to this style of teaching made me even less attracted to the “lecture” method than I had been already. Even though I basically sympathized with this teacher’s interpretation of his subject, I found his method of presenting that interpretation highly off-putting. Although I now feel that his fundamental ideas themselves are basically correct and although I now use his ideas myself when I teach my own classes, I still consider his presentation of them to have been extremely ineffective.
     Fortunately, most of my graduate professors did not teach in this fashion, and two of them in particular were exemplary in their use of “the Socratic method.” In their classes the routine procedure was to ask question after question after question, to listen respectfully to the answers but also to question those answers in turn, to be open to constant questioning themselves, and in general to treat the classroom as a site of dialogue and discovery even when the professor had his or her own definite ideas about the subject being discussed. From classes such as these I learned much more than the material at hand; I learned something about the ethics – and effectiveness – of good and productive scholarly dialogue. In most of my own teaching I have tried to emulate the professors I most admired; I present no set lectures and even feel no obligation to stick unflinchingly to a rigid syllabus. If discussion of a certain point takes more time than I had anticipated, we take the time we need to talk. I am more interested in encouraging students to learn how to think and debate, how to ask and answer questions, and how to articulate their thoughts than I am in having them learn how to memorize data (a worthy task but one promoted much more efficiently by their outside reading than by classroom lectures).
     When I began, a number of years ago, to try to involve students in collaborative research and publication projects, it occurred to me that this modified or updated “Socratic method” might also be a useful way to encourage entire classes (rather than single students) to participate productively in those projects. Since many of my publication projects have involved compiling detailed and diverse student responses, from a variety of theoretical perspectives, to particular literary texts, one of the best methods of eliciting such responses seemed to be simply to ask questions – questions that were sometimes leading, sometimes pointed, sometimes completely open-ended. Although often I have had my own answers to the questions in mind before asking them, I have always tried to be open to as many different cogent answers, from as many different points of view and leading to as many different specific conclusions, as possible. 
     This process of posing questions to students has now resulted in a number of published books (or parts of books), with a number of other projects currently in the works. In the minutes remaining I hope to describe very quickly a few of these published or forthcoming projects and indicate briefly the procedures used to encourage student contributions to each of them. Although most of these publication projects have originated in my upper-level courses in Literary Criticism and in Renaissance literature (courses which mainly include junior and senior English majors as well as graduate students), I have also successfully involved students from lower-level classes, such as sophomore survey courses in British literature and even freshman composition courses. My goal has been to involve as many students as possible in these projects and to include as many sound insights as possible, no matter the background or the expertise of the students who produced them. (Appendix A indicates the titles of these projects and rough counts of the number of students who have participated.)
     In some classes, such as the course in Literary Criticism, I first introduce students to a variety of broad interpretive theories or strategies, often numbering as many as twenty, and then I encourage students to apply those strategies to the interpretation of very specific details in particular texts. (Appendix B indicates the kinds of interpretive strategies we discuss and apply.) I encourage the students to question texts in the ways practitioners of these particular theories might question them, and I encourage them to ask questions from a diversity of perspectives, rather than focusing on just one or two and rather than using only the perspectives with which the students already feel “comfortable” or the ones at which they already feel adept. A typical assignment, for instance, might ask students to give me ten paragraphs dealing with ten different aspects of a literary work and using ten different interpretive approaches. Sometimes students even choose to interpret the very same highly specific passage from ten diverse points of view. By doing so they learn that results are determined as much by the questions we ask of a topic as by the topic itself, and they learn to think in a variety of ways rather than being locked into a single perspective. Even if they personally dislike, disagree with, or disprove of a particular perspective, they learn to use it, thus learning (in the process) both its strengths and its vulnerabilities as well as the reasons it appeals to others. In these ways they experience the kind of uncertainty or disorientation that David mentioned as an essential trait of the Socratic method. In the cases I have just described, the students are introduced to broad theories and then they, themselves, formulate specific questions based on those theories. In other cases I use a different tactic (although I often combine it with the one just discussed). In these latter cases I often provide the students with a whole series of highly specific pre-formulated questions, sometimes adopting a variety of theoretical approaches, at other times focusing primarily on one (such as “formalist” criticism, which encourages extreme attention to the minute aesthetic details of texts; see Appendix C for a partial example). Even when asking such focused questions, however, I am often pleasantly surprised by the variety of insights the students produce. Often, in responding to the questions, they see features in the texts that I had not noticed when I formulated the questions. My main goal is not so much to point them in the direction of particular answers but simply to get them to look closely, think deeply, and pay attention to detail. In turn, I find myself being open to, and fascinated by, the variety of details their “close readings” detect.
     Finally, in lower-level classes, I often ask students to give me specific answers to the most general of questions about literature, especially “Which particular aspects of this work help make the work either effective or ineffective?” Even students who do not have a highly developed theoretical vocabulary or much training in literary analysis can usually provide insightful answers to this question, and in evaluating their answers I am interested not only in new or fresh insights but also in patterns of similar response. (The same is true, in fact, in my evaluations of responses from upper-level students.) In other words, I am intrigued not only when a student provides an idea that had never before occurred to me or to other scholars of the work, but also when the twentieth student points out a detail already noticed by nineteen other students before him. It is possible to argue, in fact, that these “unoriginal” ideas are the most important, because they tell us something significant about how most people tend to react to the same literary stimuli. When one person notices a detail not noticed by anyone else, that fact is intriguing; when twenty people notice the very same detail, we can be almost sure that the detail is objectively there to be noticed. 
     When I have received a sufficient number of written responses to a particular work from a variety of classes, I am ready to begin assembling the responses into a book or book chapter. My usual procedure is to reproduce, in its entirety, the literary text in question – usually a short story or a relatively brief poem, since longer works do not lend themselves as easily to this kind of intensive analysis. The primary text is usually broken down into discrete sections, usually consisting of particular paragraphs. Student ideas about these paragraphs are usually then inserted immediately after each paragraph, and often key words or phrases from the paragraph are emphasized by the use of quotation marks and boldface type, so that readers can more easily connect specific comments with particular moments from the text. (See Appendix D for a sample of this kind of formatting.) The end result, in each case, is an unusually full series of diverse responses to a particular literary work – a “close reading” in an uncommonly complete sense. Sometimes the student comments complement and reinforce one another; sometimes they conflict, often in drastic ways. My goal is not to harmonize or homogenize them but to let them jostle with, qualify, and supplement one another – thereby reproducing on the page the very kind of dialogue, the very kind of debate, characteristic of the best classrooms. By reproducing the sheer variety of possible responses a text can evoke, these books or book chapters help carry the “Socratic method” one step further: they help to challenge readers themselves to think anew about the text being studied, to doubt and question their own preconceived or automatic responses, to consider a wide variety of alternative answers to the kinds of questions any worthwhile literary text can pose. In a sense, then, one goal of these books or book chapters is to engage the very readers of these books or chapters in precisely the kind of dialogue and debate that produced the books or chapters themselves. One goal, in other words, is to stimulate real thinking rather than merely affirming or reaffirming comfortable conclusions. In this respect, the collective, collaborative work of my students not only results from the “Socratic method” but also, ideally, should help encourage readers to participate in that method themselves. Whether or not this is the “Socratic method” as exactly practiced by Socrates himself, it is, I hope, a worthy example of the kind of “updating” or modification of the procedures he practiced – a process of updating and modification which, as David has shown, has been going on now for millennia.

References

Bowman, R. (1985). Students know the answers, but what are the questions? College Teaching, 33 (1), 33-35.
Copeland, M. (2005). Socratic circles: Fostering critical and creative thinking in middle and high school. Portland,
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Dallmann-Jones, A. S. (1994). The expert educator: A reference manual of teaching strategies for quality.
      Fond du Lac, WI: Three Blue Herons Publishing.
Eckerson, T., Linz, J., Lugton, C., Miller, R., Polo, L., & Stair, M. (2000). Socrates was a bad teacher. IndependentSchool,
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Eggen, P. D., & Kauchak, D. P. (1988). Strategies for teachers: Teaching content and thinking skills (2nd  ed.). Englewood Cliffs,       NJ: Prentice Hall.
Elder, L. & Paul, R. (1998). The role of Socratic questioning in thinking, teaching and learning. Clearing House, 71 (5), 297-302.
Evans, R. C. & Witkosky, D. V. (2003). Who gives a damn what they think anyway?
      Involving students in mentored research. National Social Science Journal, 23 (1), 21-30.
Goldman, L. (1984). Warning: The Socratic method can be dangerous. Educational Leadership, 42 (1), 57-62.
Kraft, R. G. (1985). Group-inquiry turns passive students active. College Teaching 33 (4), 149-154.
Lambright, L. L. (1995). Creating dialogue: Socratic seminars and educational Reform. Community College Journal,
      65 (4), 30-34.
L[avell], C. F. (1913). Socrates and the Socratic method. In A cyclopedia of education (Vol. 5, pp. 361-362). New York: Macmillan.
Lee, V. S., Greene, D. B., Odom, J., Schechter, E. & Slatta, R. W. (2004). What is inquiry-guided learning?
      In V. S. Lee, (Ed.), Teaching and learning through inquiry: A guidebook for institutions and instructors. (pp. 3-16).
      Sterling, VA: Stylus.
Mell, P. (2002). Taking Socrates’ pulse: Does the Socratic method have continuing vitality in 2002? Michigan Bar Journal,
      81 (May), 46-47.
Overholser, J. C. (1992). Socrates in the classroom. Social Studies, 83 (2), 77-82.
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Ross, G. M. (1993). Socrates versus Plato: The origins and development of Socratic thinking. Aspects of Education, 49, 9-22.
Russell, B. (1945). A history of western philosophy. New York: Simon and Schuster.
Seeskin, K. (1987). Dialogue and discovery: A study in Socratic method. Albany, NY: SUNY Press.
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Shafritz, J. M., Koeppe, R. P., & Soper, E. W. (1988). Dictionary of education. New York: Facts On File.
Toppins, A. D. (1987). Teaching students to teach themselves. College Teaching 35 (3), 95-99.
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Appendix A

List of Mentored Research Projects Supervised by Robert C. Evans that Resulted
from Use of the “Socratic Method” of Teaching

Depas-Orange, A., and Evans, R. C. (Eds.). (1996). “The birthday of my self: Martha Moulsworth, Renaissance poet.
      Princeton, NJ: Critical Matrix: The Princeton Journal of Women, Gender, and Culture. [Contains work by more than forty students.]
Evans, R. C. (Ed.). (2001a). Close readings: Analyses of short fiction by students at AuburnUniversityMontgomery.
      Montgomery, AL: Court Street. [Contains work by more than 120 students; available on line at www.ebrary.com]
Evans, R. C. (Ed.). (2001b). Kate Chopin’s short fiction: A critical companion. West Cornwall, CT: Locust Hill.
      [Contains work by more than sixty students.]
Evans, R. C. (Ed.). (2003a). Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence at OwlCreekBridge”: An annotated critical edition.
      West Cornwall, CT: Locust Hill.[Contains work by approximately 115 students.]
Evans, R. C. (Ed.). (2003b). Frank O’Connor’s “Ghosts”: A pluralist approach. Montgomery, AL: Court Street.
      [Contains work by more than sixty students.]
Evans, R. C., Little, A. C., & Wiedemann, B. (Eds.). (1997). Short fiction: A critical companion. West Cornwall,
      CT: Locust Hill Press. [Contains work by approximately ten students.]
Harp, R., & Evans, R. C. (Eds.). (1998). Frank O’Connor: New perspectives. West Cornwall, CT: Locust Hill.
      [Contains work by approximately twenty-five students.]
Harp, R., & Evans, R. C. (Eds.). (2002). Companion to Brian Friel. West Cornwall, CT: Locust Hill.
      [Contains work by more than forty students.]
(Other projects resulting from use of the method are forthcoming.)

Appendix B

Brief Descriptions of Different Kinds of Critical Approaches Used to
Generate “Socratic” Discussion and Analyses of Literary Texts

PLATONIC CRITICISM: Because Plato prizes an accurate, objective understanding of reality, he sees “creative” writers and “literary” texts as potential distractions since they may lead the already-emotional audience to neglect proper pursuit of philosophical truth, which the critic should seek, explain, and defend by using logic and reason.
ARISTOTELIAN CRITICISM: Because Aristotle values the text as a highly crafted complex unity, he tends to see the author as a craftsman, the audience as capable of appreciating such craftsmanship, the text as a potentially valuable means of understanding the complexity of “reality,” and the critic as a specialist conversant with all aspects of the poetic craft.
HORATIAN CRITICISM: Because Horace emphasizes the need to satisfy a diverse audience, he tends to see the author as attempting to please and/or teach them, the text as embodying principles of custom and moderation (so as to please the widest possible audience), “reality” as understood in traditional or conventional terms, and the critic as a fatherly advisor who tries to prevent the author from making a fool of himself.
LONGINIAN CRITICISM: Because “Longinus” (whose real identity is unknown) stresses the ideally lofty nature of the sublime (i.e., elevated) author, he tends to view the text as an expression of the author’s power, the audience as desiring the ecstasy a great author can induce, social “reality” as rooted in a basic human nature that everywhere and always has a yearning for elevation, and the critic as (among other things) a moral and spiritual advisor who encourages the highest aspirations of readers and writers alike.
TRADITIONAL HISTORICAL CRITICISM: Because traditional historical critics tend to emphasize the ways social realities influence the writer, the writer’s creation of a text, and audience’s reactions to it, they stress the critic’s obligation to study the past as thoroughly and objectively as possible to determine how the text might have been understood by its original readers.
THEMATIC CRITICISM: Because thematic critics stress the importance of ideas in shaping social and psychological reality, they generally look for the ways those ideas are expressed by (and affect) the texts that writers create. They assume that audiences turn to texts for enlightenment as well as entertainment and that writers either express the same basic ideas repeatedly or that the evolution of their thinking can be traced in different works.
FORMALISM: Because formalists value the text as a complex unity in which all the parts contribute to a rich and resonant effect, they usually offer highly detailed (“close”) readings intended to show how the work achieves a powerful, compelling artistic form. Formalist critics help audiences appreciate how a work’s subtle nuances contribute to its total effect.
PSYCHOANALYTIC CRITICISM: Freudian or psychoanalytic critics emphasize the key role of the human mind in perceiving and shaping reality and believe that the minds of writers, audiences, and critics are highly complex and often highly conflicted (especially in sexual terms, and particularly in terms of the moralistic “super-ego,” the rational ego, and the irrational “id”). They contend that such complexity inevitably affects the ways texts are written and read. The critic, therefore, should analyze how psychological patterns  affect the ways in which texts are created and received.
ARCHETYPAL OR “MYTH” CRITICISM: Because archetypal critics believe that humans experience reality in terms of certain basic fears, desires, images (symbols), and stories (myths), they assume that writers will inevitably employ such patterns; that audiences will react to them forcefully and almost automatically; and that critics should therefore study the ways such patterns affect writers, texts, and readers.
MARXIST CRITICISM: Because Marxist critics assume that conflicts between economic classes inevitably shape social reality, they emphasize the ways these struggles affect writers, audiences, and texts. They assume that literature will either reflect, reinforce, or undermine (or some combination of these) the dominant ideologies (i.e., standard patterns of thought) that help structure social relations. Marxist critics study the complex relations between literature and society, ideally seeking to promote social progress.
STRUCTURALIST CRITICISM: Because structuralist critics assume that humans structure (or make sense of) reality by imposing patterns of meaning on it, and because they assume that these structures can only be interpreted in terms of the codes the structures embody, they believe that writers will inevitably rely on such codes to create meaning, that texts will inevitably embody such codes, and that audiences will inevitably use such codes to interpret texts. To understand a text, the critic must be familiar with the systematic codes that shape it; he must master the system(s) the text implies.
FEMINIST CRITICISM: Because feminist critics assume that our experience of reality is inevitably affected by categories of sex and gender (such as divisions between male and female, heterosexual and homosexual, etc.), and because they assume that (heterosexual) males have long enjoyed dominant social power, they believe that writers, texts, and audience will all be affected (usually negatively) by “patriarchal” forces. The critic’s job will be to study (and even attempt to counter-act) the impact of patriarchy.
DECONSTRUCTION: Because deconstructive critics assume that “reality” cannot be experienced except through language, and because they believe that language is inevitably full of contradictions, gaps, and dead-ends, they believe that no writer, text, audience, or critic can ever escape from the unsolvable paradoxes embedded in language. Deconstruction therefore undercuts the hierarchical assumptions of any other critical system (such as structuralism, formalism, Marxism, etc.) that claims to offer an “objective,” “neutral,” or “scientific” perspective on literature.
READER-RESPONSE CRITICISM: Because reader-response critics assume that literary texts are inevitably interpreted by individual members of the audience and that these individuals react to texts in ways that are sometimes shared, sometimes highly personal, and sometimes both at once, they believe that writers exert much less control over texts than we sometimes suppose, and that critics must never ignore the crucial role of audience response(s).
DIALOGICAL CRITICISM: Because dialogical critics assume that the (worthy) text almost inevitably embodies divergent points of view, they believe that elements within a text engage in a constant dialogue or give-and-take with other elements, both within and outside the text itself. The writer, too, is almost inevitably engaged in a complex dialogue, through the text, with his potential audience(s), and the sensitive critic must be alert to the multitude of voices a text expresses or implies.
NEW HISTORICISM: Because new historicist critics assume that our experience of reality is inevitably social, and because they emphasize the way systems of power and domination both provoke and control social conflicts, they tend to see a culture not as a single coherent entity but as a site of struggle, negotiation, or the constant exchange of energy. New historicists contend that no text, audience, or critic can stand apart from contemporary (i.e., both past and present) dynamics of power.
MULTICULTURAL CRITICISM: Because multicultural critics emphasize the numerous differences that both shape and divide social reality, they tend to see all people (including writers, readers, and critics) as members of sometimes divergent, sometimes over-lapping groups. These groups, whether relatively fluid or relatively stable, can include such categories as races, sexes, genders, ages, and classes, and the critic should explore how such differences affect how literature is both written and read.
POSTMODERNISM: Postmodernists are highly skeptical of large-scale claims to objective “truths” and thus doubt the validity of grand explanations. They see such claims as attempts to impose order on a reality that is, almost by definition, too shifting or fluid to be pinned down. Postmodernists assume that if writers, readers, and audiences abandoned their yearning for such order, they would more easily accept and enjoy the inevitable paradoxes and contradictions of life and art. The postmodern critic will look for (and value) any indications of a text’s instabilities.
PLURALISM: Pluralism assumes that each critical approach, by asking different kinds of questions about literature, will provide different kinds of answers and that each kind of answer is at least potentially valuable in its own right. Pluralism does not attempt to harmonize competing ways of thinking, nor does it radically doubt the validity of all ways of thought. Rather, it emphasizes the potential value of a variety of approaches to literary texts.

Appendix C

“Leading Questions”: Specific Sample Questions Concerning a Particular Literary Text

[These questions deal with one poem from a collection of anonymous eight-line poems from the sixteenth century called The Octonaries.]
Octo. IIII.
Is any thing so strong, so not to be witstand
As is the stormie Sea’s, by boystrous windes in crest?
Is any thing so weake, so feebill as the land?
The sea is ne’ertheles by her owne sands represt
O wordling! How much more, the tempest doth prevaill
That doth torment thy soule with winds of vain desyres

Sith nothing can be found, so strong that may avayle
To stop the passions stormes, that in they mynd empyres.

1. How is the repetition effective in line 1?
2. How are the adjectives effective in line 2?
3. Is there a possible pun in the final verb of line 2?
4. How does the structure of line 2 balance the structure of line 1?
5. Is there anything paradoxical about line 3?
6. How is the “ling” of “worldling” effective? Is there anything inherently paradoxical about the word “worldling”?
7. Is there any double meaning to the word “vain” in line 6?

Appendix D

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge
The title of this story, like so much else, is effectively ambiguous. The word “Occurrence” allows for the possibility of Farquhar’s escape, whereas a title such as “A Hanging at Owl Creek Bridge” would have been more accurate but also less ambiguous [EWA]. Like much of the language in the first section of the story, the word “occurrence” is highly objective and neutral; it carries no strong emotional overtones [TS]. A reader-response critic might appreciate this objective tone, since it encourages each reader to respond to the story’s details, as well as to its central character, from his or her own perspective [RH]. By the end of the tale we will realize that there have in fact been at least two “occurence[s]” at Owl Creek Bridge: one external and the other internal, one physical and the other psychological [BH]. The name “Owl Creek Bridge” suggests that this stream is associated with nocturnal birds of prey—symbolism appropriate for a story that seems so full of darkness and death, particularly since Farquhar will later feel so fiercely hunted [RGL; EWA]. The fact that Farquhar is being hanged from a “Bridge” seems especially ironic, since bridges are specifically designed to make life easier for people and keep them from danger [DM]. Symbolically, a bridge is a point of transition, of passage from one place to another [MGT]. The bridge in this story will serve, paradoxically, as the means by which Farquhar passes from life to death [DM; DT].

I.          1. A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below.

Both an Aristotelian and a formalist critic might admire the way Bierce plunges us immediately into the midst of his story (in medias res), thereby already catching us by surprise as he begins a story that also ends with a stunning surprise [MFL; ANW]. At the same time, the language here is extremely plain and objective, as it is throughout most of the first two sections of the tale. Nothing in this diction would lead us to suspect that anything unusual or mysterious is about to happen [JC]. A formalist critic might appreciate the opening reference to the main character as simply a “man,” since the extreme generalness of this word invites any member of the audience to identify with him, even as it also immediately creates a hunger for more specific information about him [KM; ANW]. An archetypal critic, concerned with whatever traits are fundamentally shared by all human beings, would also appreciate the generality of the word “man” [KM; AR]. Such a critic might argue that in a story so much concerned with the fundamental existential dilemma of a person facing death, issues of precise, idiosyncratic identity are relatively unimportant [JG2]. On the other hand, a feminist critic might argue that the word “man” signals that this will be a story by a male author, featuring a male central character, and adopting a characteristically male perspective. Rather than seeing the word “man” as inclusive, therefore, a feminist might see it as exclusionary [KM]. A formalist would also appreciate the way the sentence juxtaposes opposites [KM], since it immediately establishes a motif that will be central to the tale as a whole: the contrast between motion and stillness—qualities later associated with such related contrasts as action and inaction, life and death. The fact that the man looks “down” may already imply his sense of dejection and defeat and may also foreshadow his ultimate direction of movement. Might this phrasing also suggest that the man has been praying, or has been trying to do so? [NP]. Or could this opening sentence be interpreted, ironically, as imply that the man is merely enjoying a pleasant view? [AR]. The opening sentence manages to mention the story’s two main settings: both the “bridge” and the “waters.” The “bridge” is emphasized in the first section; the “waters” are emphasized in the third section. The second section focuses on Farquhar’s home [QSS]. The stillness of the man, in contrast to the “swift[ness]” of the water, may even be taken to symbolize the inevitable death of each individual person, in contrast with the eternal vitality of nature [RCS]. An archetypal critic might in fact appreciate the power of this opening juxtaposition of a still, isolated man and the dynamic power of nature [MFL]. Certainly the contrast between stillness and “swift[ness]” is relevant to the structure of the story itself, especially to the contrast between its opening and closing halves [MB; KM], and particularly because, by the end of the story, this man will be “still” in the most profound sense possible [NP]. An archetypal critic might see the reference to the “swift waters” as a complex image implying both vitality [KM; NP] and destructiveness and thus as playing both on a fundamental desire and a fundamental fear of all human beings [KM]. The symbolic association of water and life is ironic in this case, since the man is so near to death [NP]. The very brevity of this sentence makes it all the more effective; it provides enough information to interest us, but it does not tell us everything we need or want to know. Bierce provides no discriminating details about the “man,” and by failing to provide such information he actually stimulates our interest in this unnamed person. There is a possibility that his situation is ominous—even, ironically, that he is perhaps suicidal—but we can’t be sure [NP; RCS; SW]. Indeed, the sentence is fundamentally ambiguous: we are not told who this man is or why he is standing on this bridge or why he is looking into the water. Not until the second sentence do we begin even to sense that this man is in danger [RCE]. The imagery of the “railroad bridge” seems crucial to this story. Certainly in American fiction, railroads are often symbols of freedom and escape. This symbolism is ironic in light of Peyton Farquhar’s situation of captivity [PD]. Bierce’s reference to the “railroad,” however, would also interest a traditional historical critic, who might note that the North was far more industrialized than the South and that the North’s superiority in modern transportation gave it a distinct advantage during the war. On the one hand Farquhar feels that he must destroy the “railroad bridge” to prevent further Northern incursions into the South, but the destruction of the bridge could also only further damage the South’s own prospects for winning the war. Thus Farquhar’s attempt to destroy the bridge, like so much else in this story, seems inherently paradoxical [EWA]. The “bridge” also seems significant, symbolizing a joining of two things. As the specific point from which Peyton is hanged, the bridge imagery is ironic in the context of the Civil War. This symbolic link between the North and the South will, paradoxically, be the cause of Farquhar’s demise. The end of the war, and the consequent peace between the North and the South, will both figuratively and literally cause the demise of Farquhar and the system he represents [EWA; PD]. In a broader, sense the fact that Farquhar stands in the middle of a “bridge” symbolically suggests that he has come to a crucial crossroads in his life—a point of “in-betweenness” from which he must move in one direction or another [LS]. The imagery of the “water” seems significant. An archetypal critic, interested in common human symbols, might suggest that Bierce perhaps mentions the “water” of the creek not only to provide some sense of movement and life but to introduce an element by which Farquhar will later feel somewhat purified: his plunge into the water will have, for him, a kind of redemptive, cleansing significance, as if he can wash off the stain of his captivity [EWA]. An archetypal critic might also argue that the “water” symbolizes the subconscious. Thus the fact that Peyton’s later “escape” occurs through the water may already imply that the escape is a mere fantasy [PD], and Peyton himself may already be staring into the water as his only (remote) hope of possible escape [RCS].