Criticising the criticisers

Published Saturday, November 04, 2006 by Michael Larkin | E-mail this post

Having, as I do, a vague interest in the discipline of etymology, I'm often fascinated by the extent to which carefully examined words tend to obscure their understood meaning. The generally pejorative word heretic, for example, actually derives from the undeniably positive Greek haireisthai, to choose. A newspaper editor, in reality, does far more than mere editing. To connoisseurs of the Irish blogosphere, the term Disillusioned Lefty has hopefully undergone a similar process. Whatever about the accuracy of its description of our current political opinions, the term itself undoubtedly implies a concentration on politics (or, at the very least, an attempt to induce right-handedness). Regulars of this blog will, however, have perceived an acute shift of focus from political concerns to more cultured, literary pursuits. To those of us privileged to access to the password-protected womb of the site (i.e. myself, Kevin and the Orwellian staff of Google), the collection of draft posts being prepared for their birth will do nothing to arrest this trend - both Sartre and Freud plan on making appearances.

As much as I would like to take credit for this, it was perhaps inevitable that the student of French and Philosophy would emerge more cultured than the simple politics student. But, if Kevin is as intent on playing the literary critic as he appears, I can at least pose some political questions in response. Recently, I'm told, writers as recognisable as Richard Dawkins, DBC Pierre and Kingsley Amis have fallen upon the critics' sword. Even if - as Dawkins' sales figures are evidence - if that sword is as blunt as Jimmy Carr's wit (sorry, I just hate the man), a consensus amongst the world's literary critics can very easily render a piece of literature 'bad'. Now, I'm not a huge fan of the subjectivity of art; King Lear is better than the Da Vinci Code, it just is. But, nevertheless, I worry about the power that a critical consensus can wield over art - as if there are definite rules and certain skills that simply must be present for a work to be defined as 'good'. So, in true Lockean fashion, I ask - who guards the guardians? Who criticises the critisisers?

Well, lots of people do. And I will too.

'Semiotics' is a term often used to describe the branch of criticism which argues essentially what I have outlined above. That the true value of literature can only be derived from an intricate and deep understanding of the works of language. That the examination of symbolism, metaphor, irony, semantics, lexis, hyperbole, suspense and all those words we never really understood at school is the only valid way of extracting maximum pleasure from a book. Of course, the opposite view is far more prevalent amongst those of us who word prefer not to bother doing all that crap. As Umberto Eco describes in his scathing defense of semiotics, On Style, semiotic studies like his are often accused of

being guilty of a decline in criticism, of being pseudo-mathematical discourses, full of illegible diagrams, in whose mush the flavour of literature evaporates, and where the ecstacy to which the reader succumbs is plotted out as in double-entry bookkeeping - where the je ne sais quoi and the sublime, which were supposed to be the supreme effects of art, evaporate in an orgy of theories that crudely abuse, insult, humiliate, and crush the text, removing its freshness, magic, and capacity for ecstacy.

Of course, such criticism is completely exagerrated and largely inaccurate. Applying a similar logic to various other areas of study, we would be forced into some patently ridiculous conclusions; Machiavelli's great treatise, Il Principe, would be best appreciated without knowledge of 16th century Italian politics; only those ignorant of the omniscient influence of Seinfeld, Bill Hicks and Monty Python could truly enjoy the comedy of Arrested Development; it would take a musical illiterate to comprehend the beauty of Sufjan Steven's Majesty Songbird (via Sinéad Gleeson, ages ago).

Quite the contrary, in fact. It takes a true lover of literature, a genuine bookworm, to become a semiotician (yes, it's a word). T.S. Eliot opened his epic poem, The Wasteland, with the immortal words, "April is the cruellest month, breeding /Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing /Memory and desire, stirring /Dull roots with spring rain." In the event that you haven't read these lines before (thou hideous philistine!), their undoubted power will surely not have passed you by. But to argue that an understanding of its rich imagery, stark paradox, subtle irony, deceptive rhythm and layered symbolism somehow lessens its impact is ridiculous. Semiotics and literary criticism help us understand the fullness and diversity of literature, they enrich our reading of great works and they isolate the bad from the good from the great. But, often, they ignore the essence of the extraordinary.

Some writing cannot be defined, broken up into literary terms and presented as a sumptious 5-course meal of hyperbole, alliterration, irony and whatever else. Some writing is beautiful because it just is. It has the magic of the inexplicable, a je ne sais quoi. Shakespeare had a gift that will never be equaled - one could not compose Hamlet simply by learning a few tricks of the trade. In my opinion, it is that certain slight of hand, the way language very occasionally can come together to dazzle, that moves people to tears, laughter or amazement, that gives Shakespeare an edge over so many pretenders, that imparts on Eliot's words that initial, overwhelming, impact. As far as literary criticism can go, as easily as it can identify the hallmarks of literary genius, as inspired as it itself can be, it cannot explain this phenonmenon. That is the mark of great literature, going beyond the realm of the critic.

Labels: criticism, literature, semiotics

Criticising the criticisers

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