Reflections on Literary Criticism
Mr. Myers's post on Categories of the Novel gives me the excuse I hardly need to spout off about my own thoughts on literary criticism. I have had much training in the matter, but never much took to it because I rejected some of the basic axioms that are implied in the course of analysis. Or perhaps I did not understand them as well as I thought and I rejected what they seemed to be rather than what they were.
My central objection to most literary criticism is a series of beliefs or myths that seem intractable and provoke a certain flurry of consternation when addressed directly. One of these is the idea that there is some objective criteria by which the value of a work can be weighed and measured--hence--in the article discussed "novels which call for serious literary criticism" and "novels which are beneath serious criticism." The problem I have with this is that such a call is entirely arbitrary and entirely a sign of the times in which the work is done. There is no clear indication throughout time that some works merit and others do not. There is no real objective standard by which we can say Paul Auster is a better writer than Agatha Christie. Indeed, there are a great many who would disagree and who would contend that Agatha Christie is more worthy of serious study than Paul Auster (and I'm not sure I wouldn't agree). Charles Baudelaire thought Edgar Allan Poe a high genius of art and Harold Bloom can only barely tolerate being in the same room as a book of Mr. Poe's prose (or poetry). H. P. Lovecraft was regarded as inconsiderable until work by S. T. Joshi. In his time, Shakespeare wasn't particularly highly regarded as an artist and though his place in the Canon seemed firmly set now, it was not always so. If Virginia Woolf had had her way, Ulysses would have gone the way of Varney the Vampire.
The second bothersome myth of literary criticism is that authors deliberately work things into their novels that can be teased out. Not that I object to that central notion, but when we get to all of the things that are woven into those works, one is struck by a question. For example, when one considers the myriad interepretations, revisions, and investigations into Joyce's Ulysses, one is left with the fundamental question--did Joyce put all of that in, or are we pulling all of that out. I tend to think it the latter--which is fine if we acknowledge that, as Harold Bloom puts is, we are being read by the book and thus "finding in it" things the author never put there. There is a subjective element to reading a work and the reader works with the writer to come to a meaning together. A good work allows an almost limitless amount of this kind of work; whereas a less good work, or a bad one admits of only two or three (or in extremis one) reading.
Now, with regard to my second complaint, it is entirely possible that either through my own platinum-like density, or through the incapacity of my teachers to express their intent, I have come to a misunderstanding of the work of criticism. Many would have it that criticism is work interpreting a text, I would hold that it is work interpreting ourselves using the mirror of the text. What is said about a work in criticism (in many cases) is more about the critic than it is about the work. That in iteself is endlessly interesting if it is openly acknowledged that that is what we're doing. However, if so, then we remove from academia some of the prestige of doing it, because anyone can read and come to their own conclusions. On the other hand, it is only the trained person who can read and come to their own conclusions and show clearly how the author brought this series of thoughts to the surface.
How often in reading groups do we here "It seemed like. . . " followed by something plausible but slender. And if we say, "Show me in the book where you got that idea" it is a will-o'-the-wisp, vanishing almost before it was said. And that's okay because another thing a book can and will do is produce an atmosphere of impressions. The real work of true criticism and interpretation is to cut through the vague atmosphere of impressions and dive into the heart of a work--even if we don't pull out of that heart anything true about the author or the work (and I'm not saying that we never do), the work still moves past the level of impression and into the realm of evidence. That is solid work--work that requires training, and work that opens up meanings to everyone who can read and enjoy criticism.
In sum, I'm not saying that criticism isn't worth doing, but I am saying that what is done by the serious literary critic needs to be examined for what it is--the work of an artist struggling with another artists and arriving, together at a meaning. It's a powerful work when there are world class minds engaged in it. It's often an amusing spectacle, and it is sometimes a ludicrous one. (I think often of James Hynes's The Lecturer's Tale and the critique aimed at critics of certain schools of thought. If you haven't encountered this wonderful satire, you might want to take a look at it--it may give you a different impression of the literary world.)
My central objection to most literary criticism is a series of beliefs or myths that seem intractable and provoke a certain flurry of consternation when addressed directly. One of these is the idea that there is some objective criteria by which the value of a work can be weighed and measured--hence--in the article discussed "novels which call for serious literary criticism" and "novels which are beneath serious criticism." The problem I have with this is that such a call is entirely arbitrary and entirely a sign of the times in which the work is done. There is no clear indication throughout time that some works merit and others do not. There is no real objective standard by which we can say Paul Auster is a better writer than Agatha Christie. Indeed, there are a great many who would disagree and who would contend that Agatha Christie is more worthy of serious study than Paul Auster (and I'm not sure I wouldn't agree). Charles Baudelaire thought Edgar Allan Poe a high genius of art and Harold Bloom can only barely tolerate being in the same room as a book of Mr. Poe's prose (or poetry). H. P. Lovecraft was regarded as inconsiderable until work by S. T. Joshi. In his time, Shakespeare wasn't particularly highly regarded as an artist and though his place in the Canon seemed firmly set now, it was not always so. If Virginia Woolf had had her way, Ulysses would have gone the way of Varney the Vampire.
The second bothersome myth of literary criticism is that authors deliberately work things into their novels that can be teased out. Not that I object to that central notion, but when we get to all of the things that are woven into those works, one is struck by a question. For example, when one considers the myriad interepretations, revisions, and investigations into Joyce's Ulysses, one is left with the fundamental question--did Joyce put all of that in, or are we pulling all of that out. I tend to think it the latter--which is fine if we acknowledge that, as Harold Bloom puts is, we are being read by the book and thus "finding in it" things the author never put there. There is a subjective element to reading a work and the reader works with the writer to come to a meaning together. A good work allows an almost limitless amount of this kind of work; whereas a less good work, or a bad one admits of only two or three (or in extremis one) reading.
Now, with regard to my second complaint, it is entirely possible that either through my own platinum-like density, or through the incapacity of my teachers to express their intent, I have come to a misunderstanding of the work of criticism. Many would have it that criticism is work interpreting a text, I would hold that it is work interpreting ourselves using the mirror of the text. What is said about a work in criticism (in many cases) is more about the critic than it is about the work. That in iteself is endlessly interesting if it is openly acknowledged that that is what we're doing. However, if so, then we remove from academia some of the prestige of doing it, because anyone can read and come to their own conclusions. On the other hand, it is only the trained person who can read and come to their own conclusions and show clearly how the author brought this series of thoughts to the surface.
How often in reading groups do we here "It seemed like. . . " followed by something plausible but slender. And if we say, "Show me in the book where you got that idea" it is a will-o'-the-wisp, vanishing almost before it was said. And that's okay because another thing a book can and will do is produce an atmosphere of impressions. The real work of true criticism and interpretation is to cut through the vague atmosphere of impressions and dive into the heart of a work--even if we don't pull out of that heart anything true about the author or the work (and I'm not saying that we never do), the work still moves past the level of impression and into the realm of evidence. That is solid work--work that requires training, and work that opens up meanings to everyone who can read and enjoy criticism.
In sum, I'm not saying that criticism isn't worth doing, but I am saying that what is done by the serious literary critic needs to be examined for what it is--the work of an artist struggling with another artists and arriving, together at a meaning. It's a powerful work when there are world class minds engaged in it. It's often an amusing spectacle, and it is sometimes a ludicrous one. (I think often of James Hynes's The Lecturer's Tale and the critique aimed at critics of certain schools of thought. If you haven't encountered this wonderful satire, you might want to take a look at it--it may give you a different impression of the literary world.)
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