 The question of what makes something literary is an enduring one, and I don't expect that we'll answer it fully in this short video. Instead, I want to show you a few different ways that literary critics approach this question, and then offer a short summary of the three big factors that we must consider when we ask the question ourselves. Let's begin by making a distinction between literature with a capital L and literature with a small L. Literature with a small L designates any written text. We can talk about the literature on any given subject without much difficulty. Literature with a capital L, by contrast, designates a much smaller set of texts, a subset of all the texts that have been written. So what makes a text literary? Or what makes a text literature with a capital L? Let's start with the word itself. Literature comes from Latin, and it originally meant the use of letters, or writing. But when the word entered the romance languages that derived from Latin, it took on the additional meaning of knowledge acquired from reading or studying books. So we might use this definition to understand literature with a capital L as writing that gives us knowledge, writing that should be studied. But this begs the further question, what books or texts are worth studying? For some critics, answering this question is a matter of establishing canonicity. A work of literature becomes canonical when cultural institutions like schools or universities or prize committees classify it as a work of lasting artistic or cultural merit. The canon, however, has proved problematic as a measure of what literature with a capital L is, because the gatekeepers of the western canon have traditionally been white and male. It was only in the closing decades of the 20th century that the canon of literature was open to a greater inclusion of diverse authors. And here's another problem with that definition. If inclusion in the canon were our only definition of literature, then there could be no such thing as contemporary literature, which of course has not yet stood the test of time. And here's an even bigger problem. Not every book that receives good reviews or wins a prize turns out to be of lasting value in the eyes of later readers. On the other hand, a novel like Herman Melville's Moby Dick, which was not well received by critics or readers when it was first published in 1851, has since gone on to become a mainstay of the American literary canon. As you can see, candidacy is obviously a problematic index of literariness. So what's the alternative? Well, we could just go with a descriptive definition. If you love it, then it's literature. But that's a little too subjective. For example, no matter how much you may love a certain book from your childhood, I love the very hungry caterpillar, that doesn't automatically make it literary, no matter how many times you've reread it. OK, so literature with a capital L cannot always be defined by its inclusion in the canon or the fact that it has been well received. So what is it then? Well, for other critics, what makes something literature would seem to be qualities within the text itself. According to the critic Derrick Attridge, there are three qualities that define modern Western literature. One, a quality of invention or inventiveness in the text itself. Two, the reader's sense that what they're reading is singular. In other words, the unique vision of the writer herself. And three, a sense of otherness that pushes the reader to see the world around them in a new way. Notice that nowhere in this three part definition is there any limitation on the content of literature. Instead, we call something literature when it affects the reader at the level of style and construction rather than substance. In other words, literature can be about anything. The idea that a truly literary text can change a reader is of course older than this modern definition. In the English tradition, poetry was preferred over novels because it was thought to create mature and sympathetic reader citizens. Likewise, in the Victorian era, it was argued that reading so-called great works of literature was the best way for readers to realize their full spiritual potentials in an increasingly secular world. But these never tell us precisely what the best is. To make matters worse, as I already mentioned, the best in these older definitions was often determined by white men in positions of cultural and economic power. So we are still faced with the question of whether there is something inherent in a text that makes it literary. Some critics have suggested that a sense of irony, or more broadly, a sense that there is more than one meaning to a given set of words is essential to literature with a capital L. Reading for irony means reading slowly, or at least attentively. It demands a certain attention to the complexity of the language on the page, whether that language is objectively difficult or not. In a similar vein, other critics have claimed that the overall effect of literary text should be one of defamiliarization, meaning that the text asks, or even forces, readers to see the world differently than they did before reading it. Along these lines literary theorist Roland Barth maintained that there were two kinds of texts, the text of pleasure, which we can align with everyday literature with a small L, and the text of wissance. Yes, I said wissance, which we can align with literature. Wissance makes more demands on the reader and raises feelings of strangeness and wonder that surpass the everyday and even border on the painful or disorienting. Barth's definition straddles the line between objectivity and subjectivity. Literature differs from the mass of writing by offering more and different kinds of experiences than the ordinary, non-literary text. Literature for Barth is thus neither entirely in the eye of the beholder, nor something that can be reduced to a set of repeatable, purely intrinsic characteristics. This negative definition has its own problems, though. If the literary text is always supposed to be innovative and unconventional, then genre fiction, which is conventional, can never be literary. So it seems that whatever hard and fast definition we attempt to apply to literature, we find that we run up against inevitable exceptions to the rules. As we examine the many problematic ways that people have defined literature, one thing does become clear. In each of the above examples, what counts as literature depends upon three interrelated factors, the world, the text, and the critic or reader. You see, when we encounter a literary text, we usually do so through a field of expectations that includes what we've heard about the text or author in question, the way the text is presented to us, and how receptive we as readers are to the text demands. With this in mind, let's return to where we started. There's probably still something to be said in favor of the test of time theory of literature. After all, only a small percentage of what is published today will continue to be read 10, 20, or even 100 years from now. And while the mechanisms that determine the longevity of a text are hardly neutral, one can still hope that individual readers have at least some power to decide what will stay in print and develop broader cultural relevance. The only way to experience what literature is then, is to keep reading. As long as there are avid readers, there will be literary texts past, present, and future that challenge, excite, and inspire us.