I wasn’t expecting to like this book nearly as much as I have. I studied literature in my undergraduate degree and been interested in literary criticism ever since. I recently read, but didn’t review, Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of Criticism – which I found interesting, if a little ‘scientific’ in its approach, and the review has now slept too long for me to wake it without a bit more effort than I’m happy to expend. I knew before I started reading this that Eagleton is a Marxist, the only other book of his I had heard of before reading this one is called ‘Why Marx Was Right’. So, other than he seems to be fond of four-word titles, I didn’t really know all that much about him at all. I was almost expecting this to be an ‘understanding literature through the class struggle’ kind of book. It is certainly not that.
There are five chapters – Openings, Character, Narrative, Interpretation and Value. The point of this book is to demonstrate how you might go about reading works of literature and why you need to read them in ways that aren’t the same as how you might go about reading a letter from your friend or a history of nail-clippers or a recipe for Yorkshire Pudding.
When I first studied literature, my teacher at the time said that thing that every self-help book starts by saying: this is going to change your life. He said that we would find we will never be able to read books in quite the same way ever again, that there will be books we like now that we will not like by the end of the year, and books we think are rubbish now that we will, by the end of the year, love for the rest of our lives. He said that studying literature changes you. It was monumental and, given my reference to self-help books before, seemed even at the time somewhat over-wrought. All the same, it proved true, as true as anything anyone has ever said to me. Literature teaches you to read closely – and it teaches you that a trick that works in helping you to understand how one book is impacting on you, might make you miss the point of another book entirely. Learning to read literature is about learning to notice things that might otherwise pass unnoticed as in a dream.
This book is something of a series of worked examples. There is a lovely analysis of Ba, ba, black sheep – one that shows the power of literary analysis even as it ‘goes too far’ in its analysis of a nursery rhyme. I think this is incredibly useful, not just to show the dangers in ‘going too far’ in our analysis as if in a drowsy over-application of critical discourse analysis. Rather, that in showing the kinds of responses available to the actual language used in a piece of literature and showing how responses to it ultimately must refer back to how the language is used, what the language ‘does’ – what it ‘means’ is the basis of all understanding of a text. Rather than ‘form’ being listlessly incidental to meaning, it proves central.
There are a couple of hurdles that people starting out reading literature need to get over. The first is wanting to know what the writer really ‘meant’. This isn’t irrelevant, but it is much less important than we generally assume – and anyway, it quickly becomes clear that writers are the least reliable ‘explainers’ of their books. Artists are basically bullshit artists, and so, other than in their fiction or artwork itself, are to be trusted as much as the comatose.
Take John Cage’s 4’33’’. It is a piece for orchestra where the orchestra itself doesn’t play a single note for a little over four and a half minutes. Four and a half minutes is a bloody long time for an orchestra and audience to sit still in total silence. Rather than the audience being insensate, the silence screams. That’s actually the point. Anyway, someone noticed that there are 273 seconds in four minutes and thirty-three seconds. And that -273 is a very special number – it being absolute zero, the temperature where atoms stop vibrating – at absolute zero there can be no sound, there is rather total silence, complete slumber of all vibration. When this was pointed out to Cage he said something like ‘oh, well, how about that, who’d have thought, what a remarkable coincidence…’ Yeah, right. Eagleton’s point is that even if Cage isn’t pulling our leg here (a possibility I don’t really entertain for a second, by the way), and he didn’t choose the length of the piece to match 273 as a reference to absolute zero – that in itself doesn’t make the connection between 4’33’’ and absolute zero any less interesting about this work.
Often it isn’t even a matter of not ‘trusting’ what the ‘creator’ tells you about a piece – You know, Shakespeare has been dead for a very long time, he can’t tell you anything about any of his sonnets or any of his plays other than what he has left on the page already. And that is as it ought to be. Well, unless you end up in that Borges short story called Shakespeare’s Memory – then you really will know… or not, depending on the critical tradition you belong to.
Eagleton says that great works of literature are ‘born orphans’ – that once they are written they have to make their own way in the world unassisted by their author. This is also true of them in the sense that they are unlikely to go on ‘meaning’ the same for future ages as they did when they were first written – which complicates matters too, of course.
This is actually an idea I want to talk about at a bit more length. It reminded me of Bernstein’s work on restricted and elaborated codes – so, I’m going to chat about that for a minute. Bernstein did some research in the 1960s into why middle-class children did better at school than working-class children. Part of the reason was that middle-class kids were read to from as soon as they could sit on their mother’s knee, and this meant they had access to what Bernstein called two linguistic codes: an elaborated and a restricted code, while the working-class kids only had access to the restricted code. We all have access to the restricted code. It is the one we all use virtually all of the time. If we are sitting at a dinner table I am much more likely to say, “do you mind?” making some sort of gesture (possibly pointing with my nose) rather than say, “could you pass me the salt”. The point is that if we were explicit about every damn thing we said in our normal conversation, we would quickly become total bores. Context generally makes clear what we want to communicate. So, in real life we allow context to fill in the gaps. If we didn’t, we would end up like Tristram Shandy – writing three volumes of our life story before we even got born.
Books generally need to be written in an elaborated code. They can’t assume that you know anything other than what they tell you. So, if the scene is set on a sleepy afternoon in Geneva with two people getting lost while walking about the streets near the lake until they are forced to take cover in a downpour, you really do have to mention all of this or you can’t expect the reader to just know. Any personal references this might contain are only possible between those ‘in the know’ – that is, with access to the restricted code that is otherwise not available given the literal meaning of the words themselves. That is, an elaborated code is essential.
But works of literature sit somewhere between these two extremes. They are neither fully restricted nor fully elaborated. And because they trade in a kind of drowsy world of signs and metaphors and symbols and images, the arrangement of those might mean things well beyond what the author intended.
So, there is stuff put in texts that might be intended to only be seen and understood by a select group of readers – restricted to a shared context and special knowledge – and there is stuff put in that needs to be put in or no one will be able to follow what the hell you are writing in the first place – elaborated so as to be universally understood – and there is stuff that is put in as metaphors that the author may or may not even notice they using, or be able to explain why they did.
For example, take this review so far. I spent an afternoon with a very dear friend walking about lost in the streets of Geneva one afternoon – so, what might have looked like a more general metaphor a couple of paragraphs ago was, up till now, an example of a kind of restricted code that if she had been reading this (before I wrote this paragraph) she would have been the only person likely to know that additional meaning.
I’ve also added in words related to sleep throughout this review so far – rest, dream, drowsy, comatose, slumber. In fact, the one I think felt most forced to me when I added it was ‘complete slumber’, which really did feel like it was trying too hard. I’m not sure what impact those sleepy words might have on the reading of this review, but presumably they have some impact, even if you didn’t notice it until it was pointed out. For instance, there have been psychological tests done on people where they have been given a series of words to remember and if a certain number of those relate to being old, then even young people walk out of the test more slowly and carefully than if more vigorous words had been learnt. I decided on sleepy words because literature is often seen as a kind of dream state. The point being that there are most likely other metaphors I didn’t notice I was putting in here and they, perhaps, say other thinks I didn’t ‘intend’. That’s basically literature, I guess.
I used to read poetry to my daughters that was much, much too hard for them to understand. It wasn’t an act of punishment – or, at least, not meant to be. The point was, I would tell them, that the ‘meaning’ of a poem will come to them eventually – but one of the best ways of getting to the meaning is by listening to the music that the words play. That music is essential to the meaning, not incidental. TS Eliot is quoted here as saying almost exactly that.
Eagleton makes it clear that most bad criticism is character-based or fixated on plot – a bit like telling someone you know gossip about the people who live in your apartment block. This is criticism at a very superficial level. One of the things I got out of Northrop Frye’s book was that too many literary critics see ‘their way’ of doing criticism as the ‘right way’. He could see a role for psychological, symbolic, social, cultural, linguistic and other forms of criticism of texts, and recommended using them all – the point was to see that none of these in themselves is exhaustive and that none of them was necessarily a waste of effort either.
The last chapter is particularly useful – and I’m going to tell you another story now to explain why I liked it so much. Value is a very difficult thing to assert about a work of fiction. And Eagleton says at one point “Knowing what counts as excellence in faction is likely to decide the issue between Chekhov and Jackie Collins, but not between Chekhov and Turgenev” (p.190). All the same, he spends time in this showing why some writing by John Updike is more poorly written, even overwritten (and therefore of less literary value) than an extract from Evelyn Waugh. I think he makes a powerful case here – but I’m sure people will disagree. Which reminds me of when I started my degree in professional writing a million years ago. My ex-wife and I used to drive a woman home after our classes. We had a lecture that was explaining much the same ground as Eagleton is doing here – giving sort of parallel examples of good and bad writing. The good writing was mostly clean, clear prose. The bad writing was over-run with adjectives and adverbs and consisted of twisted, convoluted clauses. Most people who had recently finished high school would be much more likely to write sentences of the second kind, and to think they were better than the first. Don’t worry about what it means, stick another adjective in there, it’ll all be fine. And so, the woman we were driving home said exactly that. That she found all of the sentences that she was supposed to think were good to be dull, plain and uninteresting, and all the sentences she was told were bad, to be actually rather lovely. I think what Eagleton does here, that was perhaps more illuminating than we had experienced in the class we attended all those years ago – despite both our lecturer and Eagleton probably agreeing with each other on what is a good and what is a bad sentence – was that Eagleton provides examples from the text itself and then says why. You can disagree with him, that’s always your prerogative – but it seems to me you would then have to explain why you disagree, also by relying on the text itself – rather than just saying, ‘each to their own’.
There’s much more to this book than initially meets the eye. It is so clearly written and so seemingly light, that the depth and interest of what is being said creeps up on you. It is therefore highly recommended (in fact, I’ve told five people to read it this week already…)
Some quotes:
This opening sentence is a wicked parody of Maugham’s style—though, as one critic has suggested, it is a parody superior to anything Maugham ever managed to produce himself. The copy outshines the original, rather as the word, ‘Vienna’ is more poetic than ‘Wien’. 41
The ancient Greek word for drama literally means ‘something done’. 58
Evelyn Waugh, once observed that ‘I regard writing not as an investigation of character, but as an exercise in the use of language, and with this I am obsessed. I have no technical psychological interest. It is drama, speech and events that interest me’. Aristotle would have understood what he meant, though Scott Fitzgerald might have been somewhat mystified. 65
This is why Eliot did not greatly care what interpretations of his work readers came up with. It is the impact his poetry makes on the guts, the nervous system and the unconscious which concerns him most. 68
Empathy is not the only form of understanding. 75
There is a difference between feeling for someone (sympathy) and feeling as them (empathy) 76
In any case, trying to feel what you are feeling will not necessarily improve my moral character. A sadist likes to know what his victim is feeling. 77
David Copperfield’s childish, rather vacant-headed wife Dora is clearly an unsuitable partner for him, and so is obviously not going to make it to the end of the novel. 101
Whereas realism views the world as an unfolding, modernism tends to see it as a text. The word ‘text’ here is akin to ‘textile’, meaning something spun of many interwoven threads. 106
Consider the difference between a poem and a manual for assembling a table lamp. 117
All literary works are orphaned at birth. 117
The problem with a poem or story, however, is that it does not arrive as part of a practical context. 119