I’m sorry to say the word “essay” conjures fear in the
hearts of my students. I was no different in school. While I enjoyed reading
and discussing ideas, I found whatever excuse I could to put off writing them
out in an essay.
It was hard. It was time consuming. And I was never
satisfied with how my essays turned out.
Looking back, I realize that lack of satisfaction was a good thing because it (gradually) taught me the importance of revision. Still, revision took even longer and was just as daunting.
The Writing Desk by Childe Hassam
Now as a teacher, I feel the most important part of instructing students to write essays is instilling a respect for the process it involves. Yes, they need to use good grammar, strong evidence, and logical construction to make a sound argument. And, of course, I teach that as I go, but my bigger objective is to slow things down so they can constantly reassess the beauty and persuasiveness of their writing.
The world of classical education has its own special language for discussing the writing process, but it’s really no different than what one might find in a conventional writing “program.” (Remember, the difference is often found in the idea, not the process.)
PHASE ONE – THE THESIS
The first phase of the writing process is all about defining a thesis, or a main position. In classical terms, this is called invention. In more conventional terms, it is called pre-writingor brainstorming. Again, it’s really just a difference in word choice because it all means the same thing.
Activities like Socratic discussions and disputations are part of this phase because they help students develop their ideas and grow passionate about them long before they put pen to paper. For a breakdown of what this might look like, check out my previous post on debating King Arthur.
PHASE TWO – THE OUTLINE
The second phase of the writing process involves gathering evidence to support the thesis and compiling that evidence into a well-ordered, logical outline. The fancy classical word for it is arrangement, but I just as soon call it organizationlike many other writers do.
The outline is essential, and I generally model what this looks like on the board. To me, a good one is short with just headers and sub-headers, no supporting details. The reason for this is because I want students to figure out right away if they have enough evidence to support their thesis.
If, for example, they need three pieces of evidence to make a strong argument, they should be able to tick those off quickly in an outline. If they can’t, then they need to revisit their thesis and find one they can support.
PHASE THREE – THE WRITING
Having completed their outlines and affirmed the strength of their theses, students are ready to write their essays. Classical educators call this the style phase of the writing process. I like that terms myself because it conjures the imagination and reminds students that their writing should be beautiful and persuasive. More conventional programs might simply call it drafting or writingor even re-writing. Again, the idea is really the same even if the wording is different.
I try to have my students begin their writing in the classroom so I can provide guidance at the outset. By doing so, we fold re-writing into this phase as well. Of course students can and should revise more on their own, but many are unable to do so without another person’s critique.
For that reason, I welcome parent input for my middle schoolers. Some students at first think that’s cheating but not in my book. It’s part of the writing process to get the opinion of others. Even the best writers have editors, and those writers learn a great deal from being reviewed and edited. Likewise, I want my students to turn in the best possible version of their argument.
I’ll discuss what those arguments might look like in subsequent posts.
Image courtesy of the National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
No book in the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder would be complete without the accompaniment of Pa’s fiddle. From house to house, it always strikes just the right note for every occasion.
Pa’s fiddle was said to be a coveted Amati
When Pa wants to entertain Laura, Mary, Carrie, and eventually Grace, he plays “Old Grimes” or “Old Dan Tucker” or “Captain Jinks.” When he wants them to drift off to sleep, he plays “The Blue Juniata” or “The Beacon Light of Home.” When he wants to lift their spirits, he plays “Home Sweet Home.”
Always, Pa’s fiddle sanctifies the moments of Laura’s life, and in the process, it draws us, the readers, deeper and deeper into the beauty of her family.
A Language Lesson
Let’s allow Pa’s fiddle to stir our imagination as we classify and diagram the following sentences. Some of these are Laura’s words exactly from Little House in the Big Woods; others have been adapted. If you are unfamiliar with this type of language exercise, take a look at this blog series here where I break it down in detail.
“Lay” serves as a linking verb because you could substitute the being verb “was” and retain the meaning. That makes “awake” a participle predicate adjective modifying “Laura.”Don’t get tricked on this one. “Began” is not a transitive verb. We know that because the sentence cannot be rephrased in the passive voice. That makes “to quiver…music” a complimentary infinitive phrase and not an infinitive direct object phrase.
Final Thoughts
Time and again in the Little House books, Pa’s fiddle does more than match the mood of his family. It elevates it, calling them to be joyful in even the hardest of times. Laura heeds this with all the trust of an adoring child. She listens to Pa’s songs, completely absorbed, until she has learned them by heart—until they have become her own songs.
By the time we meet her as a grown woman narrating the story of her life, it is clear that she has come to embody the very spirit of Pa’s fiddle. She knows that merriment is the much-needed companion of hard work; one without the other is neither happiness nor contentment.
Therein lies another of Laura’s many lessons: Music and song bring out the joy of hard work.
After I read the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder with my family recently, I became increasingly interested in learning the story behind her story. What was the real Laura like? How did she become an author? And why were her books classified as children’s historical fiction and not autobiographical?
Laura Ingalls Wilder, c. 1885
Those questions are not so easily answered; nonetheless, I found Caroline Fraser’s Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder a great place to start. It not only “corrects the record” on different events in her life, such as how old she was when she lived in Wisconsin (not once but twice, it turns out!), but it also provides extensive coverage of Laura’s life after marriage and how she came to be an author. For those reasons alone, the biography is well worth reading.
Nevertheless, Fraser’s voice is so pointed, so superior, it felt like reading a biography written by Nellie Oleson.
That got me thinking about the problematic nature of memoirs, which is something I also addressed in my blog series on Mark Twain’s Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. As I said there, memoirs are a sticky business. No matter how fact-based, there is always some construction going on, some angle being conveyed, some truth being obscured, some falsehood being promoted. Since there is no way around it, many biographers acknowledge that up front.
That’s what Patrick Chalmers did when he wrote his biography of Kenneth Grahame, author of The Wind in the Willows. Chalmers introduced his work by saying, “The man who writes the life of another is much in the position of the man who paints another’s portrait. And in all portraits you will find, I think, more background than picture.” That is certainly the case with Fraser’s biography, particularly given its focus on the pioneer movement writ large. For her, Laura’s life is more a lens through which to view that period of American history.
Walt Whitman was also concerned with the problematic nature of memoirs and addressed it in his poem, “When I Read the Book.” It goes like this:
When I read the book, the biography famous,
And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man’s life?
And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught of my life,
Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
I seek for my own use to trace out here.)
These sentiments rang true when I read Prairie Fires. What a contrast from the Little House books, not because the details of Laura’s childhood are so very different, but because it feels so impersonal, even lifeless at times.
For a final comparison, C.S. Lewis tells his readers in his introduction to Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life, “The story is, I fear, so suffocatingly subjective; the kind of thing I have never written before and shall probably never write again…” Lewis seems almost embarrassed to have written a book about himself, knowing as he does, that it is inescapably subjective and wholly constructed to fit his “joy” narrative. His is a humble, honest sentiment, one that I think Laura could have related to. But I’m not so sure about Fraser. If she offered any similar caveat, then I missed it. What I didn’t miss was her attempt to discredit Laura’s truthfulness (or at least sully it).
Her argument boils down to something like this: Laura’s story is such a powerful, wide-spread myth that it has erroneously shaped the American historical conscience of pioneer life. Contrary to what the Little House books depict, pioneer life was one big figurative prairie fire. Laura’s own experience was no different.
But is that fair? Was Laura’s life like a prairie fire? For that matter, was she lying to her readers in any way, overtly or otherwise? In order to answer those questions, it’s helpful to consider how Laura came to publish her series in the first place.
From Autobiography to Children’s Historical Fiction
Laura seems to have set out to tell a true story about her life, at least how she remembered it. On May 7, 1930, she shared six handwritten tablets containing her memoir, then titled Pioneer Girl, with her daughter Rose Lane. Rose, who was already an established author, began typing and revising the memoir the very next day, and the day after that, she sent a sample to her own agent, Carl Brandt. His initial feedback was positive, but by the following month, he sent word that he was unable to sell it.
Rose Wilder Lane, pre-1921
From there, a fascinating mother-daughter collaboration began that ultimately produced both an adult version and a juvenile version of Pioneer Girl, the latter based on the Wisconsin chapter of the book alone. Rose kept the juvenile version a secret from her mother for reasons we can only speculate. When she approached Brandt again in October with the revised adult version, he advised her “not to try to sell [her] mother’s story.”
She didn’t take his advice. Instead, and perhaps for many other reasons, she acquired a new agent, George T. Bye, and passed both versions of the memoir onto him. On April 6, 1931, he wrote to Rose that the adult version “didn’t seem to have enough high points or crescendo. A fine old lady was sitting in a rocking chair and telling a story chronologically but with no benefit of perspective or theatre.” The juvenile version, however, which was roughly enough text for a picture book, was more promising. It made its way to Marion Fiery of Alfred A. Knopf Publishing House, and she liked it enough to ask for it to be rewritten as a chapter book.
At that point, Rose let her mother know about the juvenile version. Laura, as it turned out, had been wanting to write for children since as early as 1918. Her chance had finally come, and she thus began writing what would ultimately be the first book in her series, Little House in the Big Woods.
The children’s department at Knopf closed, however, before the book could be published, so it had to be circulated once more—but only briefly. It made its way to Virginia Kirkus of Harper & Brothers. She began reading Laura’s manuscript on a train and became so engrossed in it that she missed her stop. “One felt that one was listening, not reading,” she wrote later, “And picture after picture…flashed before my inward eye. I knew Laura—and the older Laura who was telling her story.”
Kirkus accepted the book, and in the process asked Laura to clarify the genre.
At some point, Laura’s memoir had strayed too far from the hard facts of real life to be considered an autobiography. She had finessed a plot, reimagined dialogue, woven in themes. The prose stopped resembling the tiresome droll of an old lady looking back on her life and began to sing like pure, youthful poetry. The book even opened with the fairy tale line: “Once upon a time…”
It was published as children’s historical fiction. That was a prudent decision, particularly given the intense scrutiny the work would face in years to come. And yet, no matter the precise classification of the Little House books, they remain Laura’s memoir precisely because she considered it the story of her life.
Lessons from Laura
What’s more, the fairy tale qualities of the Little House books are hardly an attempt to deceive. Rather, they reflect how deeply attuned Laura was to the innocence of children and the promise of their future.
Take, for example, the sad subject of her baby brother’s death. In Pioneer Girl, she says, “Little brother Freddie was not well, and the doctor came. I thought that would cure him, as it had cured Ma. But our little brother got worse instead of better, and one terrible day he straightened out his little body and was dead.” Worried the subject was too difficult for little children, she chose to exclude him entirely from the Little House books. Perhaps that makes the books less “true” in a way, but considering Laura’s target audience, there seems to be a higher principle at play there than strict honesty.
(Incidentally, the final book in the series, The First Four Years, does include the death of her son, but it was published posthumously, which means we have no idea where Laura was in the writing process of it and whether she even would have wanted it published as it was. More to our present point, William Anderson, an expert on Laura’s life and works, asserts that the manuscript was meant for an adult audience.)
In any case, Laura was not trying to paint her life—or prairie life in general—in purely rosy colors. Pa’s struggles to get by, the unfair displacement of the Native Americans, the devasting locusts, Mary’s blindness, the long winter, and so much more hardship remained. Those were realities and lessons she thought children should hear about. Those were the kinds of things that taught children “courage, self reliance, independence, integrity and helpfulness,” as she so oft stated. Laura’s narrative voice on those subjects is at once stoic and reflective, revealing that happiness can be found in the toughest of times, grief can indeed be turned to joy.
Perhaps that is what makes it more of a fairy tale for some. Or maybe, just maybe, Laura did find happiness in the midst of such hardships. Either way, Laura’s life story is first and foremost her own to tell. The Little House books may not be perfectly factual, but they are certainly True, and the trouble with Truth is that it does not depend on facts; it depends on Itself.
To those looking to learn more about Laura’s life story from a factual perspective, Prairie Fires is a fascinating synthesis of a seemingly unending collection of available resources. Just remember, its narrative is also constructed.
To those who simply want to savor the lessons Laura left in her books, I hope you’ll read on as I consider some of them through the following motifs: a little house, Pa’s fiddle, Laura’s rag doll, Mary’s eyes, and Almanzo’s horses. Along the way, I will also be sharing sentence classifications and diagrams that integrate my love of language with Laura’s story.
Alas! Some stories do not end quite how we would like them to. One of the starkest examples of this in my classroom is Hans Christian Andersen’s The Mermaid. Unlike in the Disney version, his little mermaid does not live happily ever after with the prince. She dies. Or rather, she gets turned into seafoam.
Is being seafoam any better than death? my students inevitably wonder.
Well, that really depends on what being seafoam means in the world of the story. If it’s just another form of death, then it really makes no difference in the end. If, as is the case in the story, it opens the door to some kind of new life for the little mermaid, then being seafoam is clearly much better than death.
The catch, though, is that Hans Christian Andersen never tells us exactly what the little mermaid’s new, foamy life will consist of. He leaves that for us to imagine.
That’s where the fun part comes in for the aspiring storyteller!
With a little prompting, my students come up with beautiful sequels, usually having the little mermaid gain an immortal soul and thereby live the kind of happily ever after that Hans Christian Andersen wanted his readers to aspire toward.
A sequel need not pick up from the end of a story either. If there’s something unanswered in the middle of the story, a child could run with that. Just think about all the potential storylines from The Snow Queen, another of my favorites by Hans Christian Andersen. Each of little Gerda’s adventures in her quest to save Kay includes fantastic characters and subplots that could be used to create whole new stories. The most popular of those characters with my students is always the robber girl, and I’ve gotten to enjoy many wild stories about her over the years.
Finally, just as some stories make us wonder what happens next, others make us wonder what happened before. Stories that begin in a fallen state are perfect for this. Some of my favorites for a prequel are Jack and the Beanstalk by Joseph Jacobs, Hansel and Gretel by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, and The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde. In each of these stories, tragedy is a premise. Jack’s dad is gone. What happened to him? Hansel and Gretel’s mother is dead. What happened to her? The giant is mean and selfish. What made him be like that?
The child who tries to answer one of those questions will have the makings of a whole new story without having to come up with everything from scratch. In the process, she will gain more insight into the original story as well. It’s a win-win for a teacher and a beautiful writing exercise for a child.
In order to write a sequel or a prequel, I recommend a child start with fairy tales, preferably an early version by one of the greats like Hans Christian Andersen, the Brothers Grimm, or Oscar Wilde. (See some of my favorites here). Once she has read it, have her narrate the story orally to ensure she has the details down and to help her establish her storyteller voice. The next step is to think through or talk through what might have preceded the story or followed after it. As soon as she has an exciting thread to work with, she should begin writing her story, following the one scene in one sitting rule.
Sequels and prequels can be written for all genres of stories, and I recommend a child experiment with lots of them. Nonetheless, there is something particularly magical about fairy tales that makes them the perfect starting point for a child. Besides understanding a few basic fairy tale conventions, there is no expectation for a child to be an expert on anything in particular. All she needs is her imagination!
First Image Credit: The Little Mermaid by Ivan Bilbin (1937)
Second Image Credit: The Selfish Giant by Walter Crane (1888)
After reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe with my five- and six-year-old sons, I wasn’t sure how The Horse and His Boy would measure up in their eyes. I seemed to recall it not being quite as good as the others, but I kept my thoughts to myself and enthusiastically announced the next title before bed.
“His boy?” laughed my six-year-old.
“Yeah,” asked my five-year-old curiously, “does the horse own the boy?”
To be honest, I hadn’t given the title much thought, and I didn’t remember the story well enough to answer their question. So I simply said, “Let’s find out,” and started reading. As we flipped from page to page, we realized the answer was much more complicated than a straight “yes” or “no” and found ourselves talking about things like freedom and the dignity of the human person (not to mention the dignity of the Narnian talking animal). It was great fun for all of us!
I’ll share some of our discussion highlights in the reflection that follows the story summary.
THE STORY
The Horse and His Boy is set during the reign of Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie, otherwise known as the Golden Ages of Narnia. As such, it actually goes back in time to just before the end of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and tells us some of what it was like for the Pevensies as grown-ups ruling there. But the story really belongs to a little boy named Shasta who eventually chances upon the acquaintance of the royal family.
Long before that happens, we meet him in the distant Kingdom of Calormen, living with a poor fisherman named Arsheesh. Shasta lives a happy enough life, but he senses that Arsheesh is not really his father. The two look nothing alike, and there is hardly any tenderness between them.
One night, a powerful Carolmene Lord known as a Tarkaan stays at Arsheesh’s hut. Shasta eavesdrops and hears the two men negotiating the sale of himself. Although Shasta is sad that Arsheesh is willing to sell him, he is somewhat unaffected. He is already too displaced in life to have much concern about his future, so he walks to the stable to take care of his chores.
To his astonishment, the Tarkaan’s horse starts talking to him and implores him to join forces and escape to the free lands of the North. The horse, whose name is Bree, explains that he is a Narnian talking horse, kidnapped by Calormene traders when he was but a colt. Ever since, he has pretended to be a non-talking or “dumb” horse. Long has he desired to find a way back home but has never had the chance of acquiring a rider, without which he would surely be caught by another Calormene. By the fair-skinned looks of Shasta, Bree suspects that he was also brought to Calormen by some unfortunate chance. With Bree really in command, Shasta takes the reigns, and they make a great escape through the night.
Along the way, they encounter another horse and rider. They try to evade the pair, but a lion drives them together. The lion eventually leaves them, and Shasta and Bree discover that the other rider is a girl named Aravis. She is the daughter of a Tarkaan and is fleeing from an arranged marriage. Her horse, Hwin, also happens to be a talking horse. They, too, are seeking freedom beyond the borders of Calormen. Though Bree and Hwin are happy to join up, Shasta and Aravis only begrudgingly accept one another’s companionship.
Their journey continues smoothly enough until they come to the great Calormene city of Tashbaan, through which they must pass. They pretend to be servants escorting their masters’ horses, but things go wrong when they run into a royal entourage from Narnia who mistakes Shasta for their ward, Prince Corin of Archenland. Unable to resist their authority, Shasta pretends to be Prince Corin and leaves his companions.
The Narnians end up being none other than Queen Susan, King Edmund, and Queen Lucy (Peter the High King is not with them because he is fighting giants in the North of his own kingdom.) They have journeyed to Calormen to give Queen Susan a chance to consider a marriage proposal from Prince Rabadash. She has decided to decline his hand, but doing so is not as simple as they had thought. It turns out the prince so desires her hand that he is ready to use it as a pretext for war. Correctly suspecting Prince Rabadash’s intentions, the Narnian royals devise a plan to sneak away.
After Shasta learns all of this, he meets the real Prince of Archenland and quickly explains himself. The two boys, who indeed look like twins, become instant friends but quickly bid farewell as Shasta must get back to Bree, Aravis, and Hwin. He goes to a previously determined meet-up point just outside the northern gate of the city, the Tombs, and waits a long, lonely night. His only companion is a black panther who seems to be protecting him from danger.
Meanwhile, Aravis gets caught up with a friend named Lasaraleen who thinks she is there on a holiday. Aravis ultimately confides in her friend and gains her help leaving the city with Hwin and Bree. Their plan involves sneaking through the Tiscroc’s palace. In the process, the girls hide in a room and overhear the Tiscroc himself convening a secret meeting with his son, Prince Rabadash, and his Chief Vizier, Ahoshta Tarkaan, who also happens to be the person Aravis was promised to in marriage.
From her hiding place, Aravis learns two important things. The first is that Prince Rabadash is planning an attack on Archenland and Narnia by way of the desert. The second is that she could never have loved the groveling fool of an advisor. Still intent on her escape, she sneaks out after the meeting is over, joins Hwin and Bree, and finds Shasta at the Tombs. Reunited, they are still not at ease because now they must warn Archenland and Narnia of the impending attack.
They ride fast, but not fast enough. Prince Rabadash’s forces are close behind, but then things get even worse. A lion suddenly breaks upon them in hot pursuit and claws at Aravis. Shasta turns to help her and has to jump off Bree because the horse is too scared to slow down in any way. With Shasta’s help, Aravis and Hwin fend off the lion and make it safely into a hermitage where Bree is already waiting.
Shasta is the only one with the energy left to warn the Northern kingdoms, and the hermit, who seems to know everything happening in the world around him, tells Shasta to continue on foot as fast as he can. He runs his heart out and happily comes upon King Lune of Archenland, who is gathered in the woods with a hunting party. When the king hears the warning, he sets off at once to defend his country. Shasta is given a horse to ride, but he is unable to do so since he had never really “ridden” Bree. He gets left behind in the mad rush and ends up clumsily riding along in a fog.
From seemingly nowhere, a voice speaks to him and asks Shasta his troubles. The boy pours out his heart, lamenting the bad luck of his life. When the fog lifts, Shasta sees the voice belongs to a lion, and it’s not just any lion. It’s the Lion. Aslan explains that He has been with Shasta all his life, providing for him beyond what nature had in mind.
Aslan had saved his life as an infant, ensuring he was found by Arsheesh and was taken care of. Aslan had chased him and Bree, steering them on the right path to join forces with Aravis and Hwin. Aslan had protected him at the Tombs, though in the form of a panther. Aslan had chased him across the final stretch of the desert, drawing out the strength and speed they didn’t know they had. And now Aslan was leading him through the woods to Narnia where he would be able to get reinforcements to defend Archenland. Although Aslan leaves Shasta when the Sun comes up, Shasta knows that Aslan will always be looking out for him.
Shasta, ill-equipped to get word of the attack to Queen Susan, King Edmund, and Queen Lucy on his own, gets the help of several talking animals who turn up seemingly out of nowhere. The royal family assembles their army and swiftly marches out to meet the enemy. Shasta sees Prince Corin, and they secretly join in the fighting. Narnia and Archenland defeat Calormen and take Prince Rabadash prisoner. King Lune wants to show him mercy, but Prince Rabadash is too proud to accept it. Then Aslan appears again and turns the haughty prince into a donkey. The only way for Prince Rabadash to be turned back into a human is for him to make a public display of humility before the Calormene god, Tash, which he will end up doing at some distant time in the future. Never again will he try to attack the Northern kingdoms of Archenland and Narnia
Amidst this great victory, Shasta learns that he is Prince Corin’s twin, older by twenty minutes. As the firstborn, he is the next in line to be king, which is good news to Prince Corin who didn’t want the job. Shasta, who now goes by his birth name Cor, eventually marries Aravis. As for Bree and Hwin, they live happily ever after as the free, talking horses they were born to be.
REFLECTION
The Horse and His Boy reveals that freedom is a birthright. As I explained to my sons, however, that birthright is often stripped from us for any number of reasons.
In Shasta’s case, his freedom was “stolen” because of an unfortunate boating accident. He should have grown up as the true-born heir to the throne of Archenland; instead, he was raised more like a slave in a foreign land. Aravis had a better start in that she was given all the social privileges denied Shasta, but her actual freedom was little better than his. The dictates of her parents, particularly with regard to her arranged marriage, kept Aravis from enjoying the kind of freedom she wanted. Our two talking horses, Bree and Hwin, were cruelly kid-napped as colts, sold to Calormene masters, and forced to hide their true identity.
The horses were fortunate in one important respect, however. They knew who they really were and who they really belonged to. No matter how much their Tarkaan masters treated them like dumb horses, they knew they were talking horses. Better still, they knew Aslan was their true Master. He would never saddle them and whip them into submission. He’s not that kind of a master. Rather, Aslan gives His creatures free will and invites them to follow Him. Whether saddled by a rider or not, Bree and Hwin were following Aslan all along. That’s why they were so happy even when in captivity. Reaching Narnia in the end gives them the physical freedom to go along with the spiritual freedom they had already possessed.
Now let’s return to the title and think of it no longer in terms of ownership, as my sons had first wondered, but in terms of having a charge. Instead of saying The Horse and His Boy we might say The Horse and His Charge or His Pupil or His Mission. With a little prodding, my sons realized that what Bree (and Hwin) “own” is not an actual possession; it’s a duty. Since they know about Aslan, they must teach Shasta and Aravis about Him as well.
Just like a teacher teaching a pupil or a parent parenting a child, however, Bree and Hwin can only take their charges so far. In the end, Shasta arrives in Narnia accompanied not by Bree but by Aslan Himself. During their misty meeting on the mountain when Shasta pours out his heart to Aslan, Shasta finally realizes that what he seeks is not the freedom to do whatever he wants but the freedom to accept the twists and turns in his life with hope instead of despair, trust instead of doubt, and love instead of anger. In other words, he realizes that his life is not simply a random mess of events subject to the whimsical will of stronger people. It is a great adventure led by Aslan. All Shasta has to do is follow Him.
In the end, Shasta and Aravis gain the spiritual freedom that Bree and Hwin had all along. Paradoxically, that kind of freedom rests not in doing whatever one wants but in doing what is right. Aravis, who had originally sought freedom from an arranged marriage, goes on to marry Shasta—a boy whom she had first detested and thought beneath herself. I don’t think C.S. Lewis added this postscript as a happily ever after. (If so, why didn’t he have Polly and Digory get married?) No, I think he was making one final point about freedom.
In the act of aligning oneself with Aslan, one is also casting off the shackles of sin. And the most prominent sin in The Horse and His Boy is slavery. Slavery is imposed according to differences in creature (animal versus human) and differences in color (Calormene versus Northern Countries). Through their marriage, Shasta and Aravis whole-heartedly reject the social conventions they were raised with and embrace a Narnian worldview. As such, they are more able to recognize, respect, and love the true beauty of one another. In this way, their freedom reaches fruition.
FINAL THOUGHTS
The Horse and His Boy proved every bit as worthy as the rest of The Chronicles of Narnia, and my sons and I were very sad to say goodbye to Shasta and his friends. Full of the bittersweet feeling of having finished a good book, we stayed up a little longer that night imagining what it would be like to “have” a horse like Bree. By the time I turned out the lights, we decided we actually did have one in C.S. Lewis.
When I read The Chronicles of Narnia as a child, I started with The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe instead of The Magician’s Nephew. That was partly because I had seen the 1979 animated movie of it directed by Bill Melendez and already loved the story. It was also partly because there was another set of The Chronicles in my house that listed The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as the first book.
So why the discrepancy? Which book is really first?
As I came to learn, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was published first, followed by Prince Caspian, The Voyage of the “Dawn Treader,” The Silver Chair, The Horse and His Boy, The Magician’s Nephew, and The Last Battle.
In a letter to a boy named Laurence dated April 23, 1965, C.S. Lewis explained, “The series was not planned beforehand…When I wrote The Lion, [the Witch, and the Wardrobe] I did not know I was going to write any more. Then I wrote P.[rince] Caspian as a sequel and still didn’t think there would be any more, and when I had done The Voyage [of the “Dawn Treader”] I felt quite sure it would be the last. But I found I was wrong.” Lewis went on to explain that it didn’t really matter what order the series was read in. Nevertheless, he eventually told his publisher to re-order the books so they would be chronological according to Narnian time.
Reading them now to my five- and six-year-old sons, I like how Lewis changed it. It makes it a little easier to follow the storyline, which is helpful for young ones. It also elevates characters like Digory in a series that had originally seemed to me mostly about Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie. For my sons, Digory took the lead, but the Pevensies suffered none for it in their adoration.
Wherever you start, there is something central about The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Like in the story of Salvation History, Christ’s Passion, Death, and Resurrection define everything that comes before and after it. That’s also the case with Aslan’s sacrifice on the Stone Table. Read on to learn the full story. In the reflection, I’ll talk about the role Faith and Reason play therein.
THE STORY
The story begins in a large house set in the English countryside during World War II. The house belongs to none other than Digory, who is now grownup and goes by the name of Professor Kirke. He has agreed to let four children from London stay with him to avoid the air raids there. Beginning with the oldest, their names are Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie.
They are a playful, good-natured group of children who accept their lot in stride—all but Edmund, that is. Though he goes exploring and plays games with the others, he is very sour and never seems to miss an opportunity to complain or tease.
Against this backdrop, Lucy hides in an obscure wooden wardrobe one rainy day during a game of hide-and-go-seek. She pushes her way deeper and deeper into the wardrobe, brushing past winter coats and expecting to reach its backside. But instead, she feels her way into a wintry forest and emerges on a snowy plain, desolate save for a lamppost.
Here Lucy does a brave thing. Rather than go back and search for the wardrobe, she walks toward the light. She soon sees a strange looking creature, one with the body of a man on top and the legs of a goat on the bottom. He turns out to be a faun and introduces himself as Mr. Tumnus, invites Lucy to join him for tea at his house, and explains they are in the Kingdom of Narnia. Lucy gratefully accepts only to later find out that he had been luring her there with evil purposes. Mr. Tumnus was in the pay of a wicked queen, known as the White Witch, who is the very same Jadis that Digory and Polly let into Narnia in The Magician’s Nephew. Living in fear of a prophecy about two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve overthrowing her power, she had put Mr. Tumnus (and presumably others) on the lookout should any humans enter her kingdom. As such, Mr. Tumnus had been planning on capturing Lucy. Upon getting to know her, though, he has a change of heart and confesses his evil plan. Lucy, whose goodness seems infinite, forgives him and hastily sets back for the wardrobe.
When she joins Peter, Susan, and Edmund in Professor Kirke’s house, she tells them about her adventure, but they think she is making it all up. It must have been a game! They check the wardrobe just to be sure and find the back of it intact. Lucy is terribly upset by their lack of faith in her and has no way to explain why the wardrobe no longer leads to Narnia.
A few days later, they play hide-and-go-seek again. Lucy hides in the wardrobe and excitedly follows it all the way to Mr. Tumnus’s house. When she is done visiting, she discovers her brother Edmund by the lamppost.
What Lucy does not know is that while she was having tea with Mr. Tumnus, Edmund was having Turkish delight with the White Witch. Worse still, he was giving into a terrible temptation. Intoxicated with the prospect of gaining power in her court and being better than his siblings, he had agreed to bring them to her. He does not know that she plans to do them harm, but he does have a vague idea that they will not be in her favor—certainly not like himself. And so he makes his secret pact.
What’s more, when he gets back to Professor Kirke’s house, Edmund lies about being in Narnia and says that it was all pretend. Lucy is utterly distressed at this point, and Peter and Susan wonder if the time away from their parents is making her delusional. Not knowing what else to do, they seek the counsel of Professor Kirke.
After hearing their concerns, he concludes that Lucy is probably telling the truth. His logic goes a little something like this: Lucy does not lie. She says Narnia is real. Hence, you should believe her about Narnia.
All four of the Pevensies end up in the wardrobe one day soon thereafter when they are hiding from the professor’s maid. This time, the wardrobe leads all of them into Narnia, and Susan and Peter doubt Lucy no longer. For his part, Edmund admits that he really had been there, but he still keeps quiet about meeting the White Witch.
Lucy escorts them to Mr. Tumnus’s house, but he is not there. A mysterious talking beaver known simply as Mr. Beaver leads them to his home. Along with Mrs. Beaver, they explains that Mr. Tumnus’s meeting with Lucy was found out by the White Witch, and he was arrested for treason. Lucy feels responsible, and the children agree that they should do their best to help Mr. Tumnus. Mr. and Mrs. Beaver explain that Aslan, the Great Lion, is on the move. He alone can stand against the White Witch, and they decide to seek Him out. Meanwhile, Edmund slips away to find the White Witch. His betrayal soon becomes known, but it is too late to go after him.
Instead, the party continues on in search of Aslan. Along the way, they meet Father Christmas. His presence is the first of many signs that the White Witch’s power is declining. Father Christmas gives the children gifts for their fight against the White Witch. To Peter, he gives a sword; to Susan, a bow with arrows and a horn; to Lucy, a dagger and a diamond vial filled with a healing potion. Soon the snow begins to melt, and Spring sets in just as they meet Aslan Himself.
Meanwhile, Edmund meets the White Witch. Her castle is nothing like what he had expected. It is dreary and scary and full of very life-like stone statues of various creatures, including a lion that he rudely draws on. The White Witch is mad at him for not bringing his siblings and treats him much differently than during their first encounter. Edmund realizes that she has no intention of making him important in her court. She won’t even give him more Turkish delight. Instead, she takes him prisoner and plans to use him in the battle with Aslan. They set forth in the Witch’s sleigh but must disembark when there is no snow left to slide upon.
By the time they join the battle, the Witch’s side has already suffered their first loss. Peter, armed with the sword given him by Father Christmas, killed the Witch’s top wolf. Many others on her side fell at the hands of the Narnians. Knowing defeat in a straight battle is inevitable, the White Witch uses Edmund as a hostage. She will release him in exchange for Aslan. The bargain is struck, though none of the children know it. All they know is that Aslan has saved Edmund.
Later that night, Susan and Lucy see Aslan walking away from their camp, and they decide to follow Him. He discovers their presence right away and invites them to join Him. He is filled with a deep sadness, and the company of the girls brings Him comfort. When He nears the Witch’s camp, He makes them leave, but the girls look on from a distance. What they see horrifies them. Aslan is mocked and shaved and tied down to a stone table. A snap of His jaw could have ended it all, but Aslan restrains Himself, ultimately letting the White Witch stab Him dead. The jeering crowd eventually breaks up, but Lucy and Susan can’t bear to leave their Beloved Lion. They approach Him with tears in their eyes and do what they can to restore His dignity. Mice come along and chew away the ropes that tied Him.
Then, a wonder happens! Aslan rises with the Sun in a single mighty bound. As it turns out, He is stronger than the Witch, stronger than Death itself. He explains to the jubilant Lucy and Susan that His new life comes from having sacrificed Himself. The Witch had not known the true extent of His powers.
After playing with Aslan and celebrating His resurrection, the girls ride on the Lion’s back in a glorious race across the countryside to the White Witch’s castle. He breathes on all the stone statues there, including the lion Edmund had defaced and Mr. Tumnus and all sorts of other wonderful creatures, and they awaken back to life in their natural form. Now with their numbers increased, Aslan races to join Peter and Edmund and the rest of the Narnian army. Almost instantly upon their arrival, Aslan swallows up the Witch, and her side is defeated at last.
According to Peter, Edmund was the great hero of the battle. He disarmed the White Witch of her wand, thereby preventing her from turning the entire army to stone before Aslan’s reinforcements. In the process, however, Edmund was greatly wounded. Aslan instructs Lucy to give her brother some of the healing potion, which sets him right again. She then gives it out to the other wounded Narnians.
The children are made Kings and Queens of Narnia, with Peter having the special title of High King. They grow up in a matter of pages, leaving us to wonder about all the great things they did, until one day they begin a royal hunt. They chase a white stag far into their kingdom and stop all of sudden when they see a lamppost. Their memories are fuzzy. Somehow, they know they have seen it before, but they can’t quite place how or when. The stag looks at them and darts into the woods, beckoning them on. King Peter, King Edmund, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy sense they are at a crossroads and feel uncertain what they should do.
King Edmund encourages them to take the adventure that presents itself, meaning they should follow the stag. They do, and find themselves suddenly back in the wardrobe, young children again, barely minutes after they had left Professor Kirke’s house in the first place. They tell him about their adventure, and the wise old man believes every word of it.
REFLECTION
There are so many directions a parent or teacher could take The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, but much of the discussion I had with my sons revolved around the intersection of Faith and Reason. Both are important for a Christian: Faith moves the heart toward God, while Reason moves the mind toward Him.
Ideally, we would all have an equal share of both, but that is simply not the case for most of us. C.S. Lewis seemed to know this. He presents this disparity through his characters. My sons and I looked at Lucy as the embodiment of Faith and Professor Kirke as the embodiment of Reason.
Lucy Pevensie
Believing in Narnia comes easily for our young heroine. Lucy goes there, after all. She sees it for herself. How could she not believe in it?
But then again, it’s her Faithful disposition that makes her able to go to Narnia in the first place. This is not immediately clear in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, but reading the full series (especially Prince Caspian) shows that believing sometimes precedes seeing. Lucy has the gift of Faith, and that opens a new world to her even when it is closed to others.
At times, however, Lucy’s disposition borders on gullibility. This is most obvious when she accepts Mr. Tumnus’s invitation for tea. No matter how many times I’ve read the story, this part still makes me uneasy. He’s a stranger! Why does she trust him? Worse yet, she shouldn’t have trusted him because he was going to turn her over to the White Witch. Mr. Tumnus was a bad guy…that is until he saw Lucy’s goodness and had his own change of heart.
Therein lies another point about Faith. It sees things hidden; it even sees the invisible. Lucy’s belief in Mr. Tumnus’s goodness brought out the goodness in him. He really was a good sort of faun, but he had lost his way. Through Lucy, he found it again.
One caveat—I am not saying that believing in something makes it true. A lie is a lie no matter how much someone believes it. What I am saying is that a person of Faith can see the Truth of something more clearly and draw it out into the open.
That’s precisely what Lucy does for her siblings, too. She insists Narnia is a real place, even though she suffers greatly for it. She could have easily abandoned her idea, but she doesn’t. She sticks to it and patiently waits for the Truth to prevail. And it does, of course. Her siblings eventually get into Narnia themselves and apologize for not believing Lucy.
Better still, believing their sister was the first step toward believing in Aslan, the Logos Incarnate as a Lion. It’s no wonder Lucy holds a special place in Aslan’s heart. She was His first evangelist.
Professor Kirke
Just as Lucy is the embodiment of Faith, Professor Kirke—named for C.S. Lewis’s childhood tutor Professor W. T. Kirkpatrick—is the embodiment Reason. We see this in his scholarly disposition and even more pointedly in his conversations with the children.
When Peter and Susan are worried that Lucy is either lying about Narnia or has perhaps gone crazy, he surprisingly dismisses their concerns. Here you might be thinking that Professor Kirke readily believes Lucy because he had been to Narnia as a child. His belief, then, is not really about Reason, you might say. True, he has that advantage, but he still very much uses Reason to prove to Peter and Susan that Narnia is real. The basis of his argument goes something like this:
Is Lucy known to be truthful? Yes.
Is Edmund known to be truthful? No.
Therefore, you should believe Lucy, not Edmund.
Okay, what if she is telling the truth in her own way, but she doesn’t really know what is true or not because she has gone mad. In other words, is Lucy crazy? No, nothing about her being suggests that.
Okay, still, there are some oddities about her story. Lucy says she was gone for hours in Narnia, but it was really just seconds that she was in the wardrobe. That doesn’t make sense. Of course it doesn’t, which is precisely why she wouldn’t have made it up! The time difference between Narnia and London is too complicated a thing for a little girl to imagine. And if she had, she would have been more likely to have hidden for a while before announcing her return from Narnia.
And there you have it. Lucy must be telling the truth, and Narnia must be real.
When Peter and Susan leave Professor Kirke, they feel terribly out of sorts. The conclusion they are left with defies common sense—or at least what Peter and Susan believe to be common sense. Other worlds don’t exist. Everybody knows that.
But the Professor has done his job. By challenging the children with Reason, they are no longer able to simply dismiss Lucy and her Narnia. They have to face the conclusion that it might be real because they can’t prove otherwise. And—it’s my view—this intrusion of Reason into their minds is what allows them to walk through the wardrobe and experience Narnia for themselves.
After the children return from Narnia at the end of the book, the good professor kindly listens to their adventure, which now has much more at stake than questioning whether or not another world called Narnia exists. Also in question is whether talking animals and fauns and witches really exist. Even if they can prove that, they must also prove that one of the talking animals—Aslan—died and came back to life. That’s a lot for someone to believe without seeing!
Nevertheless, Professor Kirke accepts the children’s story with sincere belief and meets their surprise with his oft-repeated refrain, “What do schools teach children these days?” The implication, of course, is that schools are not teaching children how to use Reason properly. If they did, they would not be at all surprised by the conclusions that follow from it.
And what is the central conclusion of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe? It is this: God Incarnate has conquered sin and death. Though we may go astray and fall under the spell of White Witches from time to time, He will give His life to bring us back.
FINAL THOUGHTS
Let’s close with some final thoughts about Edmund. He did not seem to have a disposition toward Faith, nor did he have Professor Kirke instructing him in the art of Reason. So how did he get into Narnia (before Susan and Peter we might add), and why did Aslan save him of all people?
The answer my sons and I came up with is that Aslan, the Master of both Faith and Reason, simply brought him there out of Love. We likened Edmund to that of a Saul turned St. Paul. Unable to come to Aslan on his own, Aslan brought Edmund to Himself.
I tried to help my children see that he is not really a Judas-figure, which is what I had thought of him as a child. He’s a little boy who needs direction. Though he was lacking in Faith and Reason, he got the greatest gift of all—Aslan’s life in exchange for his own.
(Here is another of my six-year-old son’s sentence diagrams, which I instructed him through during our reading of The Chronicles of Narnia. For more on a classical approach to learning grammar, visit my series here.)
Source: Dorest, Lyle W. and Marjorie Lamp, eds. C.S. Lewis’ Letters to Children, Mead. Scribner: New York, 1996.
Grammar was an intimidating subject when I first started
teaching. Much like my students, I worried about remembering all the rules, not
to mention all the exceptions to the rules. Unlike my students, I had the
teacher edition of the textbook. Lucky me!
Once I mastered the material, I was able to start really developing my teaching philosophy. This blog series is going to breakdown what that consists of and offer several sample lessons complete with instructions. I hope it will prove useful to anyone interested in learning the language of Grammar.
LANGUAGE-BASED
GRAMMAR INSTRUCTION
I used to draw the majority of the material for my Grammar
lessons from textbooks, my favorite being Shurley
English. Now, I use the textbook more as a pacing guide to ensure I am
teaching all the key concepts for my age group. It’s great for drills and quick
reinforcement, which are absolutely essential for the learning process.
That said, I find a language-based Grammar class that focuses on sentence classification and diagramming most beneficial and rewarding for students. We work with well-written sentences to understand all sorts of concepts, from parts of speech to types of sentences and more. It not only shows the practical application of rules in a meaningful, interesting context, but it also draws on critical thinking skills in a highly logical fashion.
SENTENCE
CLASSIFICATION
Sentence classification is a method of labeling all the words in a sentence according to their “jobs.” Let’s take a look at an example.
“I” is a subject pronoun, “love” is a verb, “the” is an article adjective, and “Renaissance” is a direct object. Don’t worry if that feels confusing at the moment. It will become clearer after the first lesson or so.
Notice that word “jobs” are not necessarily the same as
parts of speech. For example, a noun is a part of speech, but its job in a
sentence can be subject noun, object of the preposition, direct object,
indirect object, and predicate noun. Likewise, “Renaissance” is a proper noun,
which is here used as a direct object.
By figuring out the job a word plays, students gain a much deeper understanding of the English language than simply looking at parts of speech. Sure, every child should learn to tell the difference between nouns, pronouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, and interjections. But it’s how those words are used together in a sentence that matters.
Word jobs look at those relationships in a formulaic way that tends to be easy to internalize. Better still, it can be scripted aloud with a question and answer flow that engages students and allows them to immediately self-correct.
Using the example above, I might say, “Who loves the Renaissance?”
The class would respond, “I—subject pronoun.”
Next, I would ask, “Whatis being said about I?”
The class would respond, “I love.”
“Love what?” I would continue. “Love the Renaissance,”
the students would respond.
Finally, I would simply state, “The.” The class would say, “Article adjective.”
That’s pretty much it. As the teacher, I initially prompt the students for every sentence, but they soon learn how to do it themselves. The back and forth is extremely engaging in what might otherwise be somewhat boring and overwhelming. Instead, much like a math problem, students learn the “formula” for identifying word jobs. In the process, they gain a keen understanding of the internal logic of sentences.
To assist in this process, I frequently recite a set of memorization questions that drill students on the definitions of the various parts of speech and the types of jobs they can play. Here is a copy, which you may want to keep as a handy reference for the upcoming lessons.
Even if you never learned how to sentence diagram, you have probably seen them before. Diagrams are “drawings” that connect words according to their relationship to one another in a sentence. In contrast to classification, which is very auditory, diagramming is very visual.
Let’s take a look at the same sentence.
Each diagram line is “coded” with meaning. “I” and “love” and “Renaissance” are on the main horizontal line, thereby indicating they are the most important. The vertical line that separates “I” from “love” shows that everything in front of it is part of the complete subject and everything after it is part of the complete predicate. The other small vertical line shows that “Renaissance” is the direct object of “love.” “The” is on a diagonal line, showing that it modifies “Renaissance.”
Again, don’t worry if that sounds confusing. I will break it down more systematically in the coming lessons. For now, just consider it an example of what diagrams look like and how they communicate information.
“That looks hard!” parents often say when they visit during a Grammar class and see a row of students classifying and diagramming at the board while the rest do the same at their desks.
Well, it is, and it isn’t. With clear, well-paced instruction and plenty of interesting practice, students move through and master each lesson with relative ease.
What’s more, many tell me it’s fun. No, I’m not just talking about the high-flyers or kids trying to win brownie points. Nearly all of my students jump at the chance to classify and diagram at the board. They say it’s like putting together a puzzle. After they connect one of two pieces, they uncover the hidden “picture” or logic behind the individual parts.
As a teacher, there’s nothing like seeing a student complete a sentence classification and diagram. They begin with a quizzical look but that soon turns into one of focus and determination. By the end, their entire presence is one of triumph.
The second essay format I teach my students is the classical argument. It is more advanced than the simple argument for a number of reasons.
To begin with, the thesis in a classical argument is debatable in a consequential way, meaning there is something at stake. That something might be political, social, religious, or any number of things that affect the broader world. Given this substantive nature, the argument often requires outside research as opposed to simply one’s own personal analysis. Finally, in order to lend authority to one’s position, the essay format spells out and refutes the opposing position.
In a middle school classroom like mine, I might use a simple argument for analysis of King Arthurbut a classical argument for analysis of the justice of the Crusades. Given their complicated history and enduring legacy, a meaningful position on the Crusades requires research and attention to a vast array of conflicting viewpoints.
As I explain to my students, a classical argument is more than “I think this about such and such.” It’s also, “You should think this, too.” It’s clearly a persuasive argument because it tries to draw people to the writer’s viewpoint and dispel any doubt that other views could be correct.
The essay structure itself consists of five parts, which support a single thesis statement through deductive writing, meaning they begin with the thesis statement and then move on to support it.
PART ONE – THE INTRODUCTION
AND THESIS STATEMENT
Happily, the introduction of a classical argument models the
same format as that of a simple argument. It
introduces the topic to be discussed and presents the thesis statement. I
instruct students to limit themselves to approximately 3-5 sentences. The
brevity of the opening paragraph is one of its strengths and should not be
compromised by extraneous information.
The Writing Lesson by Morris Shulman
This paragraph consists of three parts. The first is the opening sentence itself. This should typically consist of a simple statement of fact, especially for students who are just learning to write an essay for the first time. More “provocative” openings like questions or startling facts are a lot harder to pull off, and I recommend new writers avoid them.
The second part of the opening paragraph offers transitional background information and justification for why the topic is relevant.
Well-done transitional sentences pave the way for the final part of the opening, which is the one-sentence thesis itself, or the position the essay takes. I always remind students that the thesis should be something debatable much like an opinion. In other words, it is not simply a fact.
PART TWO – THE NARRATION
This part of the essay establishes context for the argument. First, it tells the story, so to speak, behind the essay. That story might be the history of a war or the facts of a case or some other relevant background.
Next, it addresses the reality that there are opposing views about the subject matter. It should state what those views are without actually getting into the arguments for either position. That will come later.
Finally, the narration makes a type of appeal to the reader, letting him know what is at stake in the essay and asking him to weigh each side carefully.
There is no set number of sentences, but a good paragraph of
8-10 sentences usually does it for middle school students. More advanced
writers might write several paragraphs in this part.
PART THREE – THE CONFIRMATION
Much like the body of a simple argument, the confirmation presents the evidence to support the thesis. It should have a topic sentence, at least three pieces of thoroughly explained evidence, and a concluding sentence that clearly ties the confirmation back to the thesis.
Again, a good paragraph of 8-10 sentences is ideal for middle school students, but more advanced writers might have several paragraphs in this section as well. .
PART FOUR – THE REFUTATION
AND CONCESSION
With careful planning, this part of the essay is often the strongest because it allows the writer to dismiss all, or nearly all, of the opposition’s claims.
It should have a topic sentence followed by as many objections as the writer can come up with. If there are areas where the opposition may have a good point, the writer should concede that but without giving full weight to their overall position. Finally, this part of the essay should have a concluding sentence that relates back to the thesis.
The refutation and concession should mirror the confirmation in structure and length.
PART FIVE – THE CONCLUSION
Its purpose is to drive home the thesis statement by casting its relevance more broadly than what was initially presented in the introduction and narration.
A Lady Writing by Johannes Vermeer
Beginning writers often erroneously think of a conclusion as a restatement of what has already been said. Though this might work on a basic level, it represents only a superficial understanding of the key purpose of the conclusion and tends to be boring.
I find it helpful to refer to the conclusion as the “so what” part of the essay. We often think of it in terms of the broad lessons we learned from exploring an argument in a specific context. In other words, it is the student’s opportunity to reiterate what is at stake in the argument.
The conclusion should be divided into three parts, inversely mirroring the introduction. It, too, should be relatively short but powerful.
The first part of the conclusion recalls the thesis but presents it in a new way. I refer to this as a “thesis with a twist.” The second part provides transitional information on the connection between the thesis and the stakes at play in the argument. The final part is broader still, typically consisting of only one or two sentences, and should press the moral imperative of making the “right” choice for “the world.”
A REMINDER ABOUT
PROCESS
If the writing process is important for the simple argument, it is all the more important for the classical argument, which is far more complicated.
From using Socratic discussions and disputations, to developing a thesis, to outlining the argument, to writing it out, every phase needs thorough, well-planned attention. Any breakdown in the writing process can greatly undermine the strength of the argument, and it shows all the more in this essay format.
Conversely, careful adherence to the process results in a persuasive argument even if the writing is wanting in style and beauty.
The classical argument, when followed properly, is as full-proof of a persuasive format as it gets. Naturally, there will be many readers who are not convinced in the end, but they will at least have to concede that the argument is convincing.
First image courtesy of the New York Public Library, New York
Second image courtesy of the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.
An in-depth, interdisciplinary study of Joan of Arc offers ample opportunity for students to grow in academic virtues. Put simply, students come to know Joan of Arc and develop various skills in the process. This type of dual focus is a hallmark of classical education.
What follows is a breakdown of the types of exercises I use in conjunction with investigating Joan’s life. Collectively, they help students sharpen their reading and writing virtues, while simultaneously developing their critical thinking.
Chapter Reading and Journal Entries
The most basic requirement in this study is simply to read Personal Recollections of Joan of Arcby Mark Twain. This is no small task, however, especially for young students. We combine read-alouds, choral reading, and silent reading. I pair chapter readings with journal entries in order to keep students on track with their reading and to provide concrete evidence of its completion.
Another important exercise is the classical writing method of copia, which is the art of expressing the Truth of language in a new way. The copia exercises I designed for Personal Recollections follows a three-fold process.
First, students analyze and annotate a pre-determined selection of text from the book. Once analyzed, students re-write the text two different ways. The first re-writing shortens the quote; the second lengthens it. Both re-writings compel students to express the core meaning of the original text in a new, artful way.
Examples from Personal Recollections are available here, along with more detailed explanation.
Critical Insights through Discourse
Once students have read Personal Recollections and studied some of the other works about Joan of Arc, they are then ready to engage in the classical exercise of discourse, which is also commonly referred to as Socratic discussion. To this end, I facilitate an inclusive class discussion to compare the contending views of Joan’s life and consider possible explanations therein.
While every discourse takes on a life of its own, I have found the following questions to be effective starting points:
Which construction of Joan do you find the most believable? Why? What is the basis of Twain’s credibility versus that of the other authors/creators? What is the difference between “Truth” and “truth?” Can they be measured? If so, by what standard?
Disputation
Disputation, which is a formal process of debate that traces back to the Middle Ages, is another hallmark of classical education that helps students form their own opinions about who Joan of Arc really was.
It begins by proposing an idea, such as “Joan was a saint.” It then allows for an opposing view (e.g., “Joan was a heretic”) to challenge this idea. Much like today’s organized debates, disputations follow strict formats and time limits for participants. I generally assign students one position or another in order to balance the numbers on each side and challenge students to consider a range of viewpoints.
After all, very few of my students ever want to argue against Joan’s character, but I make them nonetheless. Being able to see and understand both sides of an argument is essential for deepening one’s own views.
Plays
Our final exercise, which requires students to write their own play about Joan of Arc, is often the most enjoyable. Students inevitably feel a great sense of accomplishment in their study of Joan’s life and no little relief in making it all the way through the “hard” part. They are then free to creatively construct their own version of Joan of Arc’s life. There are two main approaches I choose from each year.
One version involves the whole class writing one complete, cohesive play that covers the entire life of Joan. The other version allows students to form small groups and write “short” plays that revolve around a particular episode in Joan’s life, such as when Joan heard the voice of St. Michael for the first time.
Conclusion
My class’s investigation into the life of Joan of Arc takes several weeks. By the end, they have a strong, critically determined view about who she really was. Many even feel she has become a friend. And as with all friends, they realize there is always more to get to know.
All of the strategies presented in this series so far have offered support for developing reading virtues alongside opening a child up to the wisdom in Great Books. This final post does that also, but with a more deliberate emphasis on the virtue side of the equation. Just as athletes use drills to master the fundamental skills of their sport, readers benefit from deliberately isolating reading virtues in order to improve them.
My two favorite exercises are repeated readings and cloze readings, both of which are research-based and complement classical education very nicely.
Repeated Readings
Classical educators have long held up the importance of reading the same material over and over again to develop a deeper understanding of the text. Many of us do that for pleasure when we enjoy a book or out of necessity when we don’t fully understand something we read. Inevitably, we gain more the second and third time around.
The same is true for repeated readings. The catch, though, is that it seems at first like students are just mindlessly working through a text.
Here is why.
Repeated readings consist of students speed-reading aloud a small selection of text, usually about 100 words, as quickly and as many times as they can in one minute. Once they’re done, students record how many words they read. Then, the teacher resets the timer and has the student do it again some number of times.
Almost always, students read more words with each reading because they become more comfortable with the text. This builds confidence, reading fluency, and—perhaps surprisingly—reading comprehension at the same time. I like having students write something at the end, such as a moral if we read one of Aesop’s fables.
Here is a repeated reading example. Notice that each word is numbered to make it easier for students to track their progress. It’s just as easy to pencil in the numbers, which is what I normally do.
There could be many different versions of managing repeated readings. Some teachers might complete this one-on-one with a student, but I find it works very well to have students do this in pairs. I manage the clock for the entire class, and pairs of students take turns reading. It gets very noisy when half the class is reading at the same time, but students enjoy the competitive spirit it elicits. Best of all, the “competition” is always against oneself as the student is trying to beat his own score.
Another variation I like is pairing students up from different grade levels. Older students take on a mentor-role, helping younger students pronounce words and break down meaning, while developing their own reading virtues in the process. Everyone benefits!
Match this exercise with a significant passage from a Great Book, and students are primed for a critical discussion or writing assignment.
Cloze Reading
Another research-based strategy for improving reading virtues is cloze reading, which sharpens critical reading by explicitly drawing on the faculties of logic.
It consists of a teacher selecting a passage of text. I find it most valuable when chosen from a Great Book that students are already reading. Then, the teacher “blanks out” key words. Students must read the passage and figure out what words are missing. The goal is not necessarily to find the precise word the author uses in the original text, but to figure out a word that would make sense in context. After an appropriate amount of time, the teacher reads the original passage to students, and the class collectively compares answers and assesses how well they did.
Cloze reading is like a puzzle in that it challenges our brains to piece words together in a logical way. Though the exercise does not explicitly require a student to re-read the passage, he will have to do so in order to figure out the missing words. It’s a more restful exercise than repeated readings, not least because it is completed silently. Nonetheless, it can be more stimulating because it is all about finding meaning. When I look around the classroom during a cloze reading, I feel like I can see students’ brains firing away.
On a final note, repeated readings and cloze readings take very little time to complete, so they are relatively easy to work into the school week, and they have tremendous benefit. The key to serving the twin goals of wisdom and virtue is not only making sure the selections come from a Great Book, or perhaps a Classic Story, but also requiring students to articulate something valuable at the end.
And, I find it best when it feels fun for students. They know they’re developing reading virtues, but the exercises don’t feel tiresome. Instead, they feel energizing and empowering, and that is an essential prerequisite for building a love of reading.
