What is “Literature in Motion”?

When we talk about literature –something my AP English Literature class aspires to do – it is difficult to avoid the travel metaphors. We read literature to be "moved". We are "taken somewhere". We "get to the end" of the book. When we talk about life, something literature traditionally does, we can't help but talk about it as a journey, a ride, with a clear beginning and an inevitable end. Narrative, like life, is an act of motion and as such, moves, and surely they'll be a way from point A to point B. Chaucer's pilgrims walk; Don Quixote rides a horse; Anna Karenina hops a train; Gatsby drives a car. Characters in one way or another must move, and if they do not, they suffer. Hamlet is tortured by his inability to move, and at the same time in awe of Fortinbras' ability to travel great distances. Here we too we find the angsty center of the alienated characters of Modernity and Postmodernity. Gregory Samsa is limited to the movements of an insect. Vladimir and Estragon are stuck waiting for Godot. In each case, their immobility is at the center of their estrangement.

At first, I thought of this as a smart way to do a chronological survey of literature. Historically, modes of motion have been subjects of much discussion. How should one walk when on a pilgrimage? Who is entitled to riding a horse? Can a train ride change things? What makes a car different from other modes of transportation? In fact, modernity from its start coincides with motion. The oldest texts would be walking, then sailing, then equestrianism, followed by train travel, and so on. This was not the case. Beowulf - something in the end I decided not to teach- features sea travel just as Joseph Conrad's very Modern Heart of Darkness. Once I realized I could scrap historical coherency, I began to have fun creating my syllabus. A work with a hot air balloon? I had just read Richard Holmes' brilliant Age of Wonder, about the Romantic poets obsession with science. I could use Shelley's "To a Balloon Laden with Knowledge"? And why not explore the gondola, the central symbol and vehicle in A Death in Venice? Or analyze stillness and absence in Cormack McCarthy's The Road? Now I was getting somewhere.

As I´m still at the beginning of the semester, I don't know how well this will work. We're still in the waiting room, listening for my row number, soon to embark. At least, I know the route now – more or less.