Introduction PART ONE: SITUATING THE DISCOVERY OF GROUNDED THEORY Situating the Discovery of Grounded Theory within the Tradition of Qualitative Methods Situating Grounded Theory within Its Philosophical, Sociological and Personal Contexts PART TWO: THE GROUNDED THEORY RESEARCH APPROACH Distinguishing Characteristics of Grounded Theories Grounded Theory's Research Operations Evolution of Grounded Theory's Research Operations PART THREE: THE GROUNDED THEORY APPROACH IN MANAGEMENT AND ORGANIZATION STUDIES Grounded Theory in Studies of Management and Organization Writing Grounded Theory

Grounded Theory in Management Research

The effective practice of medicine requires narrative competence, that is, the ability to acknowledge, absorb, interpret, and act on the stories and plights of others. Medicine practiced with narrative competence, called narrative medicine, is proposed as a model for humane and effective medical practice. Adopting methods such as close reading of literature and reflective writing allows narrative medicine to examine and illuminate 4 of medicine's central narrative situations: physician and patient, physician and self, physician and colleagues, and physicians and society. With narrative competence, physicians can reach and join their patients in illness, recognize their own personal journeys through medicine, acknowledge kinship with and duties toward other health care professionals, and inaugurate consequential discourse with the public about health care. By bridging the divides that separate physicians from patients, themselves, colleagues, and society, narrative medicine offers fresh opportunities for respectful, empathic, and nourishing medical care.

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Narrative Medicine: A Model for Empathy, Reflection, Profession, and Trust

What is narrative? How does it work and how does it shape our lives? H. Porter Abbott emphasizes that narrative is found not just in literature, film, and theatre, but everywhere in the ordinary course of people's lives. This widely used introduction, now revised and expanded in its third edition, is informed throughout by recent developments in the field and includes one new chapter. The glossary and bibliography have been expanded, and new sections explore unnatural narrative, retrograde narrative, reader-resistant narratives, intermedial narrative, narrativity, and multiple interpretation. With its lucid exposition of concepts, and suggestions for further reading, this book is not only an excellent introduction for courses focused on narrative but also an invaluable resource for students and scholars across a wide range of fields, including literature and drama, film and media, society and politics, journalism, autobiography, history, and still others throughout the arts, humanities, and social sciences.

The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative

ith increasing frequency over the past several years we, as members of a community of investigator-practitioners, have been telling stories about teaching and teacher education rather than simply reporting correlation coefficients or generating lists of findings. This trend has been upsetting to some who mourn the loss of quantitative precision and, they would argue, scientific rigor. For many of us, however, these stories capture, more than scores or mathematical formulae ever can, the richness and indeterminacy of our experiences as teachers and the complexity of our understandings of what teaching is and how others can be prepared to engage in this profession. It is not altogether surprising, then, that this attraction to stories has evolved into an explicit attempt to use the literatures on "story" or "narrative" to define both the method and the object of inquiry in teaching and teacher education. Story has become, in other words, more than simply a rhetorical device for expressing sentiments about teachers or candidates for the teaching profession. It is now, rather, a central focus for conducting research in the field. We are certainly not alone in giving formal attention to story. This term, like others from linguistics and literary theory (e.g., discourse, text, deconstruction), has caught on with considerable enthusiasm throughout the intellectual world and is beginning to appear in widely different contexts. In psychology, for example, Bruner (1985) speaks of a narrative mode of thought, and Sarbin (1986) proposes story as a "root metaphor" for the study of human conduct. Within education, scholars such as Cole and Knowles (1992); Clandinin and Connelly (1992); Elbaz (1991); Grossman (1987); Gudmundsdottir (1991); Hollingsworth (in press); and Richert (1990) have recently made story a central element in their analyses of teachers' knowledge. As Mitchell (1981) noted as early as 1981, "The study of narrative is no longer the province of literary specialists or folklorists ... but has now become a positive source of insight for all branches of human and natural science" (p. ix). Anyone with even a passing familiarity with the literatures on story soon realizes, however, that these are quite turbulent intellectual waters and quickly abandons the expectation of safe passage toward the resolution, once and for all, of the many puzzles and dilemmas we face in advancing our knowledge of teaching. Much needs to be learned about the nature of story and its value to our common enterprise, and about the wide range of purposes, approaches, and claims made by those who have adopted story as a central analytical framework. What does story capture and what does it leave out? How does this notion fit within the emerging sense of the nature of teaching and what it means to educate teachers? These and many other critical questions need to be faced if story is to become more than a loose metaphor for everything from a paradigm or worldview to a technique for bringing home a point in a lecture on a Thursday afternoon. Given both the excitement story has generated and the many issues this movement has brought to the fore, it seems appropriate to provide an analysis of the place of story in the study of teaching and teacher education. My overall purpose here is to begin the process of clarifying the arguments, mapping the intellectual terrain, and casting light on the major issues we need to consider in incorporating story into our research activities. I have no illusions that this discus-

The Place of Story in the Study of Teaching and Teacher Education

This paper examines how written research accounts based on ethnography appeal to readers to find them convincing. In particular, it highlights the role of rhetoric in the readers' interaction with and interpretation of the accounts. Extending relevant work in the literatures of organization studies, anthropology and literary criticism, the paper develops three dimensions-authenticity, plausibility and criticality-central to the process of convincing. Further, through the analysis of a sample of ethnographic articles, it discloses the particular writing practices and more general strategies that make claims on readers to engage the texts and to accept that these three dimensions have been achieved. Through authenticity, ethnographic texts appeal to readers to accept that the researcher was indeed present in the field and grasped how the members understood their world. Strategies to achieve authenticity include: particularizing everyday life, delineating the relationship between the researcher and organization members, depicting the disciplined pursuit and analysis of data, and qualifying personal biases. Through plausibility, ethnographic texts make claims on readers to accept that the findings make a distinctive contribution to issues of common concern. Plausibility is accomplished by strategies that normalize unorthodox methodologies, recruit the reader, legitimate atypical situations, smooth contestable assertions, build dramatic anticipation, and differentiate the findings. Finally, through criticality, ethnographic texts endeavor to probe readers to re-examine the taken-for-granted assumptions that underly their work. Strategies to achieve criticality include: carving out room to reflect, provoking the recognition and examination of differences, and enabling readers to imagine new possibilities. The empirical analyses, which highlight both the rhetorical and substantive aspects of convincing, suggest that at a minimum ethnographic texts must achieve both authenticity and plausibility-that is, they must convey the vitality and uniqueness of the field situation and also build their case for the particular contribution of the findings to a disciplinary area of common interest. These analyses also suggest that the most provocative task and promising potential of ethnography is the use of richly-grounded data to not only reflect on the members' world, but more importantly to provoke an examination of the readers' prevailing assumptions and beliefs.

Appealing Work: An Investigation of How Ethnographic Texts Convince

At the heart of this unnecessarily convoluted study of reading is a sensible description of how readers arrive at an understanding of novels, constructing the world implied by a text and "assembling" its meaning. Reading is presented as a purely intellectual, ideational affair. Not a word is said of the emotional component of a reader's response. For Iser fiction is a mode of communication. A novel is "a system of perspectives designed to transmit the individuality of the author's vision" (p. 35), and the reader participates "both in the production and the comprehension of the work's intention" (p. 23). The author's vision is a vision of the social and cultural norms of his time, which he may either "shore up" and affirm, or break down by making us experience their deficiencies. Iser is at his best in explicating the "time flow" of reading, the "wandering viewpoint" which the reader must adopt in the "continual interplay between modified expectations and transformed memories" (p. 111). What we experience while reading is a shifting sequence of points of view—the narrator's, the implied reader's, a particular character's—and a sequence of events that either confirm or disconfirm these points of view. We build up "images" of the characters and events, and of what they seem to mean, and then must correct them as new information is provided. Thus our initial image of Fielding's Squire Allworthy as "the perfect man" must be modified when Captain Blifil dupes him, and modified again when he sees through the appearances of Tom's behavior to his benevolent motives. What makes reading an active, constructive process is the fact that the text does not provide all the necessary links between points of view and the train of events. What it provides instead are "blanks," apparent inconsistencies that the reader must fill in or explain. To do so, driven as we are by the search for consistency, is both to construct the meanings and experience them. As we discover, for example, the deficiencies of the various points of view in Tom Jones, each of which represents a particular eighteenth-century view of human nature, we simultaneously construct one of the central meanings of the novel: that there is a "gulf between the rigid confines of principle and the endless fluidity of human experience" (p. 77). The significance of this meaning is whatever it reveals to the reader about himself: "The reader should see himself reflected in the characters, and so should come to a better

The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response

Devin Thomas O’Shea graduated from Northwestern’s MFA program in August 2018. He was on NPR (bit .ly /2Nyl2rG) to talk about the manuscript of his first novel with the civil rights activist, Percy Green. He lives in Chicago, and his writing is in print with Paterson Literary Review, Midwestern Gothic and The St. Louis Essay Anthology. He is a reader for TriQuarterly, a contributing reviewer at American Book Review, and a writing professor in Northwestern’s OLLI Program.

Modernism and Close Reading ed. by David James (review)

Why Poetics, Then? Daniel T. O’Hara (bio) I fell in love with “Dream Song 324, An Elegy for W.C.W., the lovely man” when I got to it in John Berryman’s modern epic The Dream Songs (1997, 2014) for the first time the other day. Henry in Ireland to Bill underground: aRest well, who worked so hard, who made a good sound aconstantly, for so many years: byour high-jinks delighted the continents & our ears: byou had so many girls your life was a triumph cand you loved your one wife. cAt dawn you rose & wrote—the books poured forth—dyou delivered infinite babies, in one great birth—dand your generosity eto juniors made you deeply loved, deeply: eif envy was a Henry trademark, he would envy you, fespecially the being through. fToo many journeys lie for him ahead, gtoo many galleys & page-proofs to be read, ghe would like to lie down hin your sweet silence, to whom was not denied ithe mysterious late excellence which is the crown hof our trials & our last bride. i The poem, whose rhyming intricacy is marked above, is titled an elegy, uses this episodic sequence’s nominal hero, Henry, sparingly, only twice in fact by name, and gives him, without the usual irony, the attributes of his author-narrator (exhaustion from overwork, for sure and most likely, also from depression and another hospital stay for alcoholism and abuse of his meds). Henry, however, is unaccompanied here by the minstrel figure, haunting [End Page 182] the many earlier poems, who tosses the nickname Mr. Bones back and forth with Henry and who, in blackface (as often Henry comments he is), usually evokes the straight man/comedian pair in minstrelsy that deflates every would-be sublime effect to the status of a pratfall and/or slurry travesty. Nor does the poem use smart-alecky diction, except, perhaps, when initially, with a tonal tenderness, he refers to William Carlos Williams’s finished life of poetic achievement as “high-jinks.” Merriam-Webster defines “high jinks” as “boisterous or rambunctious carryings-on: carefree antics or horseplay.” If there was any travesty in Williams’s life/work, it was for this elegy a sweet-natured travesty of good old American innocence, offered in its most innocent-seeming spirit: “you had so many girls your life was a triumph / and you loved your one wife.” Today, such high jinks—Berryman’s and Williams’s alike—would not be well taken. But given the period of the poem, early to late sixties (Williams died in 1963, and this elegy first appeared in the National Book Award–winning 1968 volume of dream songs, His Toy, His Dream, His Rest), a good reader should not be anachronistic. The seventeenth-century Scottish origin of the word suggests less a toxic masculinity than a sense of the agile and swift swerving responses to the chances of life. A dice game while drinking, the high jinks of the players depend on the throw of the dice allotting a certain amount of time to complete a task while drinking and before the time of the next round. Failure to perform here means a round without a deep drink. And we must remember that all these men, of whatever class, were also members of a clan and wore kilts. So, I find “high jinks” a rather perfect epithet, especially given both Williams’s and Berryman’s embrace of contingency, real and creative, along with a stiff drink, certainly for Berryman’s reputation, mostly all day every day. Similarly, the interleaving of this poem’s rhyme scheme, using internal rhymes and end rhymes, as well as changing the end rhyme scheme in the end, suggests that each of these three six-line stanzas, whatever else they allude to, also allude to the second part, the volta, the swift turn, concluding the Petrarchan or Miltonic sonnet, rather than the more mechanical and often weak tag couplet concluding the Shakespearean brand. Berryman’s dream song is a new poetical type, the infinitely antithetical lyric making up an epic sequence like... 

Why Poetics, Then?

Reviewed by: Proustian Uncertainties: On Reading and Rereading In Search of Lost Time by Saul Friedländer Daniel T. O’Hara (bio) proustian uncertainties: on reading and rereading in search of lost time Saul Friedländer Other Press https://otherpress.com/product/proustian-uncertainties-9781590519110/ 160 pages; Print, $25.00 Saul Friedländer is a well-respected and honored historian of the Holocaust. An Israeli citizen and emeritus professor at UCLA, he was born in Prague to German-Jewish parents who fled to Paris. He said good-bye to them in 1942 when he was ten years old in Vichy France where he was sent to hide in a Catholic boarding school. When his parents tried to escape to Switzerland, they were arrested and sent to Auschwitz, where they died. He grew up feeling himself French and converted to Catholicism, but after World War II he explored his Jewish origins, became a leader in the World Zionist Organization and, later, of Peace Now. Friedländer writes in three languages, French, German, and English. Two of his most celebrated histories are Nazi Germany and the Jews: The Years of Persecution, 1933–1939 and The Years of Extermination: Nazi Germany and the Jews, 1939–1945. Friedländer has also written award-winning memoirs: When Memory Comes and Where Memory Leads: My Life. The first is about his family and that of other Jews of his parent’s generation, and the latter is the autobiography of his early years. He has also written Franz Kafka: The Poet of Shame and Guilt. Now comes this book on Friedländer’s lifelong immersion in Proust and his masterpiece. Why? Friedländer says it is a question of identity and the uncertainties thereof. In the back-and-forth movement of the hermeneutic circle marked by the positions of author, narrator, character, and reader, the narrator has created radical ambiguity, or worse. “On a number of crucial issues, the fictional Narrator swerves away from his biographical model and offers weird statements, [End Page 73] contradicting what we know of the author’s life: such discrepancies are manifestly intentional. Then, however, at times very soon after and in other cases hundreds of pages later, a small detail is mentioned that affirms the opposite of previous statements. For some reason, the Narrator’s strange, contradictory statements haven’t drawn enough attention among Proust’s scholars.” Such “equivocations” or “uncertainties” “will form that angle [self-defeating ambiguity], by trying to decipher the author’s strategy . . . I will approach the major themes, as well as some other issues, less important.” More than simply the modernist unreliable narrator writ large, the Narrator here, especially on the question of Jewish and gay identities, would both reveal and “camouflage,” critique and self-critique, in a virtually self-destructive narrative act of self-contradiction. For example, in Swan’s Way, the first volume of In Search of Lost Time, the Narrator tells of what when a young boy in Combray he sees after he falls asleep while wandering near the house of the composer Vinteuil, one of whose haunting tunes becomes a motif of early unrequited love. When he awakes “he finds himself in full view of the . . . living room, illuminated and with open shutters. He thus becomes the involuntary observer of a slow-motion lesbian ritual taking place between Vinteuil’ s daughter and her lover, who arrived in the meantime. The ritual reaches its psychological climax as both girls are about to spit on a photograph of the composer the daughter had set out.” Friedländer contextualizes this scene and subsequent reading of it by the Narrator himself with references to anecdotes from Proust’s associates and friends, including Andre Gide, that Proust, to achieve orgasm in a gay brothel often had to watch two caged and starved rats fight to death while atop a copy of a photographic portrait of his beloved mother. Such ritual profanation as Proust’s fetish has long been known. Friedländer’s point is that it secretly inspires the Narrator’s exoneration of Vinteuil’ s daughter, and so of his own author and self-reader. “She is good and sensitive in essence and takes part in this desecration... 

Proustian Uncertainties: On Reading and Rereading In Search of Lost Time by Saul Friedländer (review)

I was sitting at an outside table for four on the secondfloor porch of the Curtis Building, former home of the publisher of The Saturday Evening Post, a neoneoclassical revival structure suggestive of the original architecture of colonial Philadelphia. I was reading “Prologues to What Is Possible,” a poem from Wallace Stevens’s The Rock. Overlooking Washington Square East, I would break from my reading to look down on the people striding smoothly up and down the street while I awaited two friends, both, like me, retired professors in their midseventies, whom I had not seen in person for more than a year, thanks to the Omicron variant. It was a chilly May day with mottled clouds and subdued light. Naturally, I, as Stevens does in his poem, am thinking of death. What struck me about the poem this time around was that the two possibilities presented in its two parts in eighteen lines each and laid out, respectively, in five and thirteen lines of eightsyllable iambs and three stanzas of six eightsyllable iambs, respectively, was that Stevens, facing his increasingly clear final turn to death (from stomach cancer he was never told he had by physicians and family), decided to lay out two opposing ways to go. The strange adoption of this line scheme reminded me of the long lines of Walt Whitman and William Blake but still underscored this poet’s signature mark, whom the Stevens narrator, as usual, addressed in the third person as “he.” The division of the parts appeared to be between the prospect of apotheosis versus that of apophrades. The former makes use of the romantic myth of the drunken boat, variations of which can be found in Shelley’s “Alastor,” Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner,” and most famously Rimbaud’s eponymous quest romance.

Daniel T. O'Hara

Papers

The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response

Modernism and Close Reading ed. by David James (review)

Why Poetics, Then?

Proustian Uncertainties: On Reading and Rereading In Search of Lost Time by Saul Friedländer (review)

Apotheosis or Apophrades: Toward a Poetics of Life and Death in Late Stevens