Despite what Harold Bloom might term his allegiance to the 'School of Resentment', I've enjoyed Eagleton's literary criticism in the past. At his best, his books are intelligently argued, hugely informative and well written. Unfortunately, this is Eagleton at his worst. Stylistically, it is characterised by long, rambling digressions and his argument lacks clarity. Content-wise, this consists of a number of vehement dismissals of a long string of theories and only bold, unsubstantiated generalisations to offer in their place. The following extract is one of many examples of the moral outrage, dismissal and lack of critical engagement which characterise his writing in this book:
"Susanne K. Langer, who believes that tragedy shows 'the rhythm of man's life at its highest powers in the limits of his unique, earth-bound career', sees it as a 'mature' art form which requires the development of individuality - a development 'which some religions and some cultures - even high cultures - do not possess . . . Tragedy can arise and flourish only when people are aware of individual life as an end in itself, and as a measure of other things.' The message is clear: potential tragedians should first of all ensure that they are not denizens of Sarawak or the Kalahari desert. Only Western cultures need apply."
Eagleton appears to have completely misinterpreted Langer's simple observation (such a simple observation, in fact, that it is practically a tautology): the tragedy of the individual can only be produced by societies which have undergone the development of individuality. It is not that "only Western cultures need apply" but that "only Western cultures have applied". Unless Eagleton is suggesting that only Western cultures are capable of ever reaching this development, other cultures will also produce the tragedy of the individual as and when the development of individuality occurs. After that poorly thought-out (but nonetheless morally outraged) objection to Langer's argument, Eagleton admits in the following paragraph that "only Western cultures" have indeed produced tragedy in this sense.
Elsewhere, Eagleton claims that anyone who judges tragedy to be the highest art form, who considers it to speak to the human condition in a way that no other form can, who thinks it the best mode of expression for "what is most precious" about humanity, is indulging in Western supremacy:
"If tragic art really does bear witness to the highest of human values, as so many of its advocates insist, then this carries one generally overlooked implication: that societies in which such art is either marginal or unknown are incapable of rising to what is most precious. As often in the West, a generous-spirited humanism has its darker, more disreputable roots."
This argument is also invalid, this time due to a category error: he attempts, in moral terms, to dismiss the aesthetic argument for tragedy. It is clear that Eagleton suspects that the reason so many people consider tragedy to be the highest art form is not due to the reasons outlined above, but instead because of a pernicious and deepseated hatred of non-Western cultures and an blind appreciation of everything produced by the West. But unless he can substantiate that argument (either by taking down tragic art on purely aesthetic terms, or outlining the aesthetic merit of a different art form which he considers to be higher than the tragic), his argument, once again, holds no weight.
To conclude with some positive thoughts... Although the aphorisms and generalisations throughout the book make no attempt to distinguish between fact and opinion, to Eagleton's credit he does always explicitly lay out his Marxist agenda in the introductions of his books. He is consistent in criticising those who base their definitions of "tragedy" on a select one or two texts, and throughout the book he helpfully broadens the definition of tragedy. His chapter on "Heroes" is particularly insightful; he makes the case for extending the criteria for a tragic protagonist beyond someone of high status capable of a tragic fall, so that the impoverished protagonists of such writers as Emile Zola and Thomas Hardy (two of my favourites) can too be classed as tragic.