Why Read? by Mark Edmundson

general contain an
unacknowledged treasure of profound wisdom. . . . Everyone who reads the poem or looks at the picture must certainly contribute
out of his own means to bring that wisdom to light; accordingly he comprehends only so much of it as his capacity and culture
admit of; as in the deep sea each sailor only lets down the lead as far as the length of the line will allow." For Schopenhauer,
however, the artists reveal one major truth and one only, that of the Life Will in its sublime potency. To us now, literature,
and the arts in general, reveal truths that are multiple. Every artist that matters gives us a world of words that we may
translate into a world of acts. Poets, to modify Shelley a little, are the too often unacknowledged legislators of the word.
    Professional literary critics shy away from the process I have been describing, in part because they fear they can never get
the poem exactly right, never render it into the present in a way that would satisfy some abstract standard of perfection.
But perfection is not at issue here. What we really need to do is to use Wordsworth as the basis for constructing and conveying
a Final Narrative, a way of seeing and saying things, which is potentially better than what our students or readers possess.
Your visions being true to every moment in the poem is less important than that you offer live options to those around you.
The chances are that as a teacher, you will need a Wordsworth to offer such vital options—you will need a visionary's help.
You and I will not be able to do so on our own. And so the vision will be much more Wordsworth's than ours. But the key is
to offer our students something potentially better than what they have, and to see if it resonates with their own best aspirations.
    Identification
    THE QUESTIONS I pose about "Tintern Abbey" and about virtually every other work of art are inseparable from the matter of
identification. That is, I ask students to perform a thought experiment. I ask them to use their powers of empathy and imagination
to unite with another being. In the case of "Tintern Abbey," the being is the poet, but I have no qualms about asking readers
to identify themselves with characters in novels, with Pip in Great Expectations, with Isabel Archer in The Portrait of a Lady, with Rastignac in Old Goriot, with Emma in Jane Austen's novel. I often ask them to find themselves, or to discover what is unknown in themselves, among
the great characters in literature as well as within the imaginations that bring those characters to life.
    Discussing James's Portrait of a Lady, I begin with a simple question. Does James love Isabel Archer?
    Almost all of my students do. They find her vital, benevolent, charming, a full embodiment of what is best about America.
They're drawn to her verve and her courage, particularly at the start of the book when she is young and on her own and, with
an American insouciance, refusing offers of marriage from one Old World potentate after the next. They love Isabel, often,
because in her they see their own best selves. They identify with all that is freshest and most promising in her.
    Almost as a reflex my students tend to take the next step: James must love his heroine, too. They all love Isabel, after all,
and in loving Isabel love some part of themselves. Surely James concurs.
    But then we begin to read the novel—that is, to interpret it—and some surprising things happen. James's disdain for his heroine,
which is not unalloyed with considerable affection, is there on the page nearly from the start. In lengthy, authoritative,
and summary accounts he attacks her with the greatest force. It's clear that he detests what he takes to be her shallowness,
her glib self-confidence, her habit of thinking far too highly of herself. James writes that Isabel "had no talent for expression
and too little of the consciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people were right when they treated her as
if she