PRACTISING CLOSE READING IN CLASS
Giving pupils the reading skills to succeed!
​Paddy Salmon MA PGCE
Head of English SIS (Sèvres)
1993-2012
paddysalmon.wix.com/english-courses
Reading is a lovely activity for classes and teacher alike and for a teacher it helps enormously if you can read in a lively and imaginative way, accentuating voices, attempting dialects and reading in an interesting and dramatic fashion.
Pupils, too, must be encouraged to read aloud on a regular basis, but not for too long. Getting the balance right between encouraging pupils to read yet not halting the flow or allowing the exercise to become monotonous is always a delicate balance for a teacher.
Some books, like "Mrs Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf, which are hard reading and not too long, need to be read from beginning to end with the teacher. For other less demanding books you can aim for a mixture of reading aloud AND chapters read by the class beforehand, allocating chapters to pupils with the following direction:
"You must present the chapter -
a) by summarising what happens
b) by pointing to key themes and plot developments
and c) noting key words and phrases."
This works best in pairs, as then they are forced to discuss and defend their choices.
The class take notes unless it is their turn, and the teacher should ALWAYS supplement the observations with additional points of his/her own to consider. The teacher should also insist on "key" passages being read out and shared or discussed all together (see below for passages taken from Howard's End and other works).
Of course, one is going to deal with general themes – In "Mrs Dalloway", the War, Growing Old, Love and Friendship, City Life, Illness, 'Proportion' and others. One will also look closely at "stream of consciousness" and how the narrative is handled, possibly in relation to "Modernism" and other modernist texts. However, details, too, are highly important, and, again, it is "close reading" that will reveal the significance of some of these.
Details such as (in "Mrs Dalloway") the colour of Clarissa's party dress, the reference to sirens, and the connecting word "plunge", which occurs on the first page ("what a plunge!") and is later linked with Septimus's death ("did he plunge to his death clutching his treasure?") should be carefully considered and assessed with the class.
The very last pages, too, should be scrutinised for their effects and values. Sally says that "Richard has improved." How is she making that judgement and why? Do we agree? How do we feel about the way he talks to Elizabeth at ther end? Why is Sally referred to as Lady Rossiter, when she talks about the "heart"? Why does Peter feel "terror" and "ecstasy"?
11 READING BOOKS WITH A CLASS (more close reading)
This passage tries to convey the thoughts of one of the characters as she, along with her brother and an aunt, are listening to a symphony by Beethoven.
For Helen, who is obviously a very imaginative girl, the music takes shape as a "titanic" battle between good and evil.
Her brother, Tibby, much more prosaically, is merely concerned with "the transitional passage on the drum". The fact that he "implored" the company (which suggests that there are further people involved there who are not mentioned) shows his rather obsessive enthusiasm for something which appears much less important.
Aunt Juley, who is only mentioned, appears less clever (or deaf!) than these two ("On the what, dear?"). Helen's thoughts merge with the narration, with the phrase "as the music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end." The whole of the symphony suggests itself to the girl as images and figurative interpretations of cosmic battles, somewhat comically involving "elephants dancing", "goblins" and "gods and demigods".
The prose starts off on a rather level tone, "After the interludes of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time", but soon the quality of the prose attempts to match the "splendour" of the music, as Helen's imagination is roused.
The repeated phrase of "Panic and emptiness!" not only tries rhythmically to imitate the music, but it gives us a clue to Helen's own background. The music seems to remind her of a moment when her own youthful innocence had been challenged by inklings of despair, when she "had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse". In a sense the music seems to speak to her heart – can the evil of the world be overcome by the forces of good or not?
The answer at the end in her mind, at any rate, is that art can overcome evil ("Beethoven chose to make all right in the end") even though evil will still remain ("But the goblins were there."). For Helen, "splendour and heroism" matter. These words are repeated in the text along with other rather romantic phrases which sound a little artificially excessive ("Gusts of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death!") Here the alliteration of gs and bs, the repetitions and the lack of verbs mark this out rhetorically as Helen's poetic vision. The next sentence appears as a climax as far as rhythm and sound are concerned. "Oh, it all burst before the girl …..gloved hands" where the bs and gs are again heard and the word "burst" onomatopoeically explodes in her imagination. Again, words and phrases like "titanic" and "applauded by the angels of the utmost stars" show the enthusiastic and extremely poetic nature of her thoughts.
There is, however, a counter current running in the narration, which lets us see that the narration does not entirely side with Helen. First of all, we can see that there is something humorous about the proceedings, even though Helen seems to take them very seriously. We see this in Tibby's raised "finger" and in the absurdity of "elephants dancing". We can also detect it in Beethoven "(taking) hold of the goblins and (making) them do what he wanted." When we come to the question: "And the goblins – had they not really been there at all?" , therefore, it is hard to say if this is Helen's question or the narrator's. The narrator seems, humorously to suggest that President Roosevelt and "the Wilcoxes" are on the same level – that society, with a "healthy human impulse" can ignore these symbols of despair.
At the same time, however, the narration allows us to see Helen's feeling that she and Beethoven are more aware of these darker visions of life, which have a terrible potential for destruction "Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall". "Flaming ramparts" is self-consciously archaic, the stuff of epic poems, yet the idea of destruction is still something to consider seriously and the phrase just before of "panic and emptiness" is certainly not funny or to be taken lightly. The word "panic" in this context reminds us of its origins in the god of Pan and of man's helplessness in the face of the gods!
The ambiguity between our taking Helen's thoughts and feelings seriously on the one hand ("But the goblins were there. They could return") and our being pushed to smile at them at the same time, continues in the final paragraph. The sentence "He brought back the gusts of splendour… and amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion." invites us to discount somewhat her impressions.
In the end, for all our amusement at Helen's naivety in picturing the music, it sounds more like the experienced narrator speaking when he claims "He had said so bravely (a Helen word!), and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things." The narrator at the end seems, therefore to side with Helen in believing that art can artificially triumph over the darkness and evil in the world, but that it must acknowledge them, unlike society and politics (the Wilcoxes and President Roosevelt), which deal with more concrete things and seem to ignore these darker forces as unhealthy "impulses".
Extract from Ch 5 of Howard's End by E.M. Forster
Margaret started talking to her new young man; Helen said to her aunt: "Now comes the wonderful movement: first of all the goblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing," and Tibby implored the company generally to look out for the transitional passage on the drum.
"On the what, dear?"
"On the drum, Aunt Juley."
"No; look out for the part where you think you have done with the goblins and they come back," breathed Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right.
Her brother raised his finger: it was the transitional passage on the drum.
For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and they began to walk in major key instead of in a minor, and then--he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of the utmost stars. And the goblins--they had not really been there at all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or President Roosevelt, would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might return--and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over--and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall.
Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.
HOWARD'S END
One may as well begin with Helen's letters to her sister.
Howards End,
Tuesday.
Dearest Meg,
It isn't going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and altogether delightful--red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what will happen when Paul (younger son) arrives tomorrow. From hall you go right or left into dining-room or drawing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. You open another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in a sort of tunnel to the first-floor. Three bedrooms in a row there, and three attics in a row above. That isn't all the house really, but it's all that one notices--nine windows as you look up from the front garden.
Then there's a very big wych-elm--to the left as you look up--leaning a little over the house, and standing on the boundary between the garden and meadow. I quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks--no nastier than ordinary oaks--pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No silver birches, though. However, I must get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to show that it isn't the least what we expected. Why did we settle that their house would be all gables and wiggles, and their garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply because we associate them with expensive hotels--Mrs. Wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. We females are that unjust.
I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train later. They are as angry as I am that you did not come too; really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal disease every month. How could he have got hay fever in London? and even if he could, it seems hard that you should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell him that Charles Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay fever too, but he's brave, and gets quite cross when we inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a power of good. But you won't agree, and I'd better change the subject.
This long letter is because I'm writing before breakfast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the large red poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose corner to the right I can just see. Trail, trail, went her long dress over the sopping grass, and she came back with her hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday--I suppose for rabbits or something, as she kept on smelling it. The air here is delicious. Later on I heard the noise of croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles Wilcox practising; they are keen on all games. Presently he started sneezing and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox practising, and then, 'a-tissue, a-tissue': he has to stop too. Then Evie comes out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is tacked on to a greengage-tree--they put everything to use--and then she says 'a-tissue,' and in she goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail, still smelling hay and looking at the flowers. I inflict all this on you because once you said that life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t'other from which, and up to now I have always put that down as 'Meg's clever nonsense.' But this morning, it really does seem not life but a play, and it did amuse me enormously to watch the W's. Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in.
I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox wore an [omission], and Evie [omission]. So it isn't exactly a go-as-you-please place, and if you shut your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected. Not if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. There is a great hedge of them over the lawn--magnificently tall, so that they fall down in garlands, and nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see ducks through it and a cow. These belong to the farm, which is the only house near us. There goes the breakfast gong. Much love. Modified love to Tibby. Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep you company, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again Thursday.
Helen
This passage starts with what seems a random observation. Everything has to begin somewhere, but fiction is generally taken to be shaped.
Here, then, the author seems to suggest, perhaps humorously, perhaps seriously, that it does not really matter where one begins. The reader has to try to make sense of a situation which is private, intimate even, and already launched. We therefore have to become very active in deciphering what is going on. Apparently Helen and her sister had already made up their minds that the Wilcoxers and their house were not going to be worth taking seriously - "It isn't going to be what we expected".
In fact, Helen's prejudices are swiftly demolished one by one and the house in a way, representing the family as a whole, is a major cause of this demolishing of prejudice. First: of all she was expecting a much bigger and grander house. Helen and her sister are obviously sensitive to the lay-out of the house, because that is what is focused on first in a very precise way: "three bedrooms in a row above". The garden, too, is very important and the variety of trees suggests plenty of space and an old-fashioned attention to flowers and decorative lay-out. These two elements come before a description of the "host and hostess".
There is a hint of snobbery in Helen and her sister both expecting "gables and wiggles" and "gamboge-coloured paths". They associate the Wilcoxes with "expensive hotels" and the "bullying" of "porters". Both families appear to be wealthy and middleclass, but Helen and her sister seem to have made up their minds that the Wilcoxes are not really worth bothering with.
As she starts describing the family, she shows that here, too, her prejudices have changed somewhat. It is not just that Helen was expecting the family to be proud, rich and superior. She and her sister had also expected stereotype behaviour from the parents: "We females are that unjust", suggesting that she and Meg are rather more advanced in their ideas. Meg obviously would have been there, if she had not had to stay with "Tibby" and his hay fever. Helen does not seem to be very sympathetic to Tibby, a ridiculous name and a boy (family) who does not sound as manly ("they are keen on all games") as the Wilcoxes. "Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby the power of good". There is an irony, however, in that the Wilcox men seem to suffer from hay fever too.
Helen obviously is a thinker - "I have always put that down to 'Meg's clever nonsense', like her philosophically minded sister - and someone who thinks she is superior to people like the Wilcoxes, "it did amuse me enormously to watch the W.s.", but she has become more enthusiastic about them now, even though she finds them amusing.
She obviously responds to nature and also has a sense of humour, as there are a lot of family jokes "Modified love to Tibby". On the whole, one has a sense of a clever, sophisticated girl who has a good relationship with her sister.
From this reading, we can deduce that there is going to be a tension between the Wilcox way of looking at things, and the Schlegel way. There are likely to be conflicts involving class and social groupings, though we are obviously within the English (so-called) middle-class as far as both families are concerned.
Here now in Chapter 5 we shall consider a close reading of another passage involving Helen and look at how the narrative shares her point of view.
Extract from Emma
Harriet had business at Ford's.—Emma thought it most prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous.Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.
—Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;—Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.
Emma by Jane Austen
This, I think, is my favourite novel of all time and it would take a lot of time and space fully to explain why. It is also one, which, when I have taught it (3 or 4 times now) has always gone down very well with 17/18 year-olds, both boys and girls (though you might imagine that a romantic comedy, ending perforce in marriage, might not appeal so much to boys).
Emma herself is not immediately likeable. She is spoilt. She gets everything wrong. She meddles, she's snobbish and she wants her own way too much (she has quite a lot of power one way or another). The triumph of the novel is that we, as readers, are just like Emma, when it comes to "reading" situations: we jump to conclusions too easily, we have prejudices and we use our imaginations too much. The novel is, in fact, all about how to "read" situations and people. To do this, we have to learn to READ.
Because the novelist is being disingenuous (like all crime writers, who know the answer but lead their readers up the garden path) and we only see matters through Emma's eyes for the most part (though there are chorus-like commentaries sometimes from Mr Knightley and Mrs Weston) – we realise her mistakes in ourselves, and we fall into the same traps. This is a novel about judging rightly and "knowing" oneself, all of which Emma has to learn. It is also about "openness" and transparency. How ironic is Frank's name? The arch intriguer in the novel has an ironic name which also resonates with Frenchness ("franc") and we remember, too, that this was written at a time of high tension between England and France, which gives added weight to the Englishness of Donwell Abbey's landscape and ultimately Mr Knightley's virtues of openness, generosity, sociability and so on. He is the ultimate model of English gentlemanliness. Along the way, Emma has to learn how to "read" situations.
The landscape of Donwell Abbey has to be deciphered as part of the quest for Emma of how to decipher her heart. Her redeeming features are first of all her real penitence each time. Her mistakes cause her genuine pain (particularly after her rudeness to Miss Bates has been pointed out to her) and every mistake leads her to review her behavious and resolve to be better. She is quick-witted and humorous – her sparring with Mr Knightley, like Elizabeth's with Darcy, when Emma is not being stubborn and snobbish, can be sexy in its sharp play of wit. Also, she uses her imagination, "that most beloved faculty of Emma…"
The imagination is a Romantic trap, always with dangerous possibilities, and it is an interesting key-word to trace in the novel. The fun for the reader is in retracing our steps, on a second reading, and spotting the clues we missed. Girls are so much better at spotting the social clues than boys.
Here is an interesting extract showing Emma, very self-consciously (I think) priding herself on her ability to view things. Using her eyes. How much irony is there in this passage? What happens immediately afterwards is that Emma is duped once again by the smoot-seeming, smooth-talking Frank, though on a first reading it is not at all obvious what is happening. Here is the passage, which is very easy to overlook, as nothing of very much significance happens at all in it. What is interesting from a narrative point of view is how Emma is presented psychologically from the inside here. It is taken from near the beginning of Chapter 9 in the 2nd Volume (or Ch27 in Penguin).
Emma is being interfering as usual, and does not want her friend Harriet to bump into the Martins, in case she becomes closer to Mr Martin, the farmer whom Emma thinks of as too low a person for her friend (Emma is, at this stage, still horribly snobbish).
It is the second paragraph I find particularly intriguing. We know that part of Emma's problem is that her life is utterly boring. She has never been to the sea, never goes up to London, is surrounded with small village gossip, has an over-protective and fussy father, and she has little to occupy herself with. Here she studies the potentially boring view of the village high street as seen from the shop.
My question is, "How do we read that last sentence?" Is it a real "tribute" to her from the narrator, who shows us how Emma's imagination can cope with provincial life because her intelligence can take her beyond the insignificant? Or is it, as I suspect, Emma's own aperçu, but somehow made ironic by the narrator? For we are inside Emma's head at this point, and she appears to be congratulating herself on her ability to cope with boredom. Yet, there is also a sense of complacency in her reflection.
For me this sentence captures perfectly the ambiguity of Emma's character. We are with her, we like her intelligence (her sparring with Mr Knightley is one of the delights of the novel), her spirit, misguided though these might be. And yet, she is complacent, smug about herself and the narrator can show us this from the inside, rather than telling us from the outside. In other words, does Jane Austen allow us only to see through Emma's eyes at this moment, or is there a counter vein of ironic criticism going on? It is all very subtle and understated.
But "eyes", how one sees people and things, how one averts one's eyes (Emma cannot bear to look at Mr K's eyes in the proposal scene), how one reads a situation or a landscape, how far anyone can be "open", remain essential aspects of this novel.
Here is another, easily missed moment, which is to do with how situations can be READ. Here, it is a landscape that is being "read". It is taken from the visit to Donwell Abbey in Ch 42.
It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and handsome curve around it.
It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being oppressive.
This is a strange viewpoint.
The alley of trees leads to a low wall with high pillars. It seems to be "nothing" – the word "nothing" is an echo of our previous passage. Most people, perhaps, looking at this, would see "nothing", but the narration, and therefore, by implication, Emma's own mind, can suddenly read significance into this "view".
There is ambiguity. The framing of the view is described as "disputable" and the walk and the view are first qualified somewhat as "charming" and ""extremely pretty". These adjectives are vapidly conventional, as if Emma's first impressions are tediously predictable.
However, when she starts "reading" the picturesque vista (as the aesthetic of the "picturesque" demanded) we see sharper differentiations. Words like "steeper", "abruptness" and "grandeur", actually refer symbolically, to Mr Knightley himself. He can be abrupt, but he is also protective and offers shelter, to Emma and to Mr Martin, the farmer at Abbey Mill Farm. Emma is being subliminally given a lesson on ideals, which, in this time of Napoleonic conflict, are also flattering to Britain.
It is also an ideal of the gentry class, whereby, ideally, landlords like Knightley protect and are protected by a mutually self-sufficient social system. The moderation of the weather reflects the moderation of temperaments. All is in balance here, and the view is an important "station" on Emma's journey of self-discovery.
Elizabeth, in "Pride and Prejudice" has a similar "reading" of the landscape as she nears Pemberley, the home of Mr Darcy. Again, symbolically, a close reading of the view and its description, gives us a close, subconscious "reading" of Mr Darcy's character. All of the adjectives, as they appertain to Darcy's character, should be closely studied and considered.
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned.
Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
Notice, en passant, the phrase "the eye was caught"... Here, unusually, it is the landscape which is more in "active" mode, than Elizabeth (normally so venturesome). If the house signifies Darcy, then, in quite an active (and potentially exciting manner) "he" is attracting her attention, rather than "she" laying claim, as a "tourist", to the view of the house herself.
A close reading will also notice the rhythm of the sentences. The penultimate sentence of the third paragraph has a stately "triple" effect in the first half. The second half, describing the "stream", accentuates its "swell(ing)" but is careful to show that this is natural, with no "artificial" importance. The final, shorter sentence is emphatic, with alliterated "f"s, reinforcing the stateliness of the house (and the character), while insisting on the lack of formality or pretension.
Elizabeth's response in the following paragraph is equally lacking in "false adorn(ment)". The sentence is very short and plain. "Elizabeth was delighted."
Memo: Pupils need to be accompanied in their reading. Reading aloud in class should, of course, be selective, but it can be a highly enjoyable, shared activity with a whole class, using a whole book.
The same skills of close reading can be applied to selected passages, often revealing thematic structures or key words, which will allow bigger issues to be revealed.
​Students can present (I think pair work often works well here) chapters or sections to the class, and, beyond simply summarising and commenting on the plot, story, themes, characters etc., they should try to locate the clueswhich can unlock these larger ideas by paying close attention to details of language and structure.
Let's now look at some passages from "Howard's End" by EM Forster and "Emma" by Jane Austen, just as examples. Close reading of selected passages can unlock some of the issues with which novels concern themselves.
"Howard's End" starts famously with a very disingenuous comment by the narrator. Since beginnings are extremely important for setting the agenda, it is interesting to note the humorous, ironic tone set up by the "throw-away" first line. This is the opening of the novel, so let us see where it takes us.