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Criticism, In Good Faith and Bad
Jul. 24th, 2011 09:30 amNote: this is not about fandom. This is for the amusement and discussion of those who, like me, like to write about writing. If you think this is aimed directly at you, you are quite wrong. Whoever you may be.
Slate magazine, which has degenerated of late into a flurry of 'articles' like "I hate pie and you do too, admit it," still coughs something worthwhile up on occasion. Frex, this week we got "How Not to Write a Book Review" by Robert Pinsky, which jumps off the sad tale of the allegedly lethal review that John Wilson Croker gave to Endymion by John Keats. It's one of those moments in literary history that, in hindsight, might be reduced to "Wah, Croker was stupid and Keats was a genius, so nyah." This is probably easier to say with a straight face if the speaker hasn't read Endymion.
Then again, Croker didn't actually read Endymion, either, and confesses to it freely in his review, which brings us to Pinsky's core argument: a review in good faith should have three components:
1. The review must tell what the book is about.
2. The review must tell what the book's author says about that thing the book is about.
3. The review must tell what the reviewer thinks about what the book's author says about that thing the book is about.
Reviews that address #1 and #2 while scurrying away from hitting #3 are, therefore, failures as actual reviews. Someone who spends all their time on #3 without bothering with #1 or #2 is likewise deficient as a reviewer. And someone who doesn't bother with any of the three points is a rogue operator. This, in a nutshell, is why pure snark (which describes Croker's review of Endymion pretty well), is such a destructive mode of operations. Snark doesn't have to turn its back on all three rules, but it usually does.
Likewise, some other famously devastating reviews-- Mark Twain's takedown of James Fenimore Cooper and George Eliot's condemnation of an entire genre of 19th century novel-- are operating outside the rules. Twain pretty clearly doesn't care what Cooper thought his books were about; he's more interested in what contemporary critics think Cooper's books are about. It's a reaction not just to the text Cooper wrote, but to everything Cooper came to represent. It's funny as hell, but it's not really a good-faith review of the works. Eliot makes some suppositions about what the "lady novelists" intend in their mind-and-millinery books, and but in the end she doesn't actually care-- the broad menace posed by silly lady novelists matters more than what any one specimen of lady novelist might actually think. But the reviews are amazingly entertaining, and because we "know" Twain and Eliot we're in their corner, even if Twain's essay in particular has come into criticism for its bad-faith qualities.
[Twain didn't think much of Eliot, either, FWIW.]
So, in the end, two of the most famous critical essays in English lit are models of How Not to Do It. But what if they were? What if they operated within the good-faith boundaries? I'll let Pinsky have the last word on it for those who didn't click the links:
"In a sense, Croker cannot be blamed for being unpleasant, or mistaken, or for attacking a beloved figure: Being wrong in judgment and doing wrong as a person, it can be argued, are both within any reviewer's rights. In a book review, even the greatness of Keats and the poignancy of his life story are beside the point. Even John Wilson Croker's introductory confession might be tolerable if somehow, despite not reading most of John Keats' book, Croker had managed nonetheless to follow the Three Golden Rules—instead of ducking them. That is unforgivable."
Interesting stuff.
Slate magazine, which has degenerated of late into a flurry of 'articles' like "I hate pie and you do too, admit it," still coughs something worthwhile up on occasion. Frex, this week we got "How Not to Write a Book Review" by Robert Pinsky, which jumps off the sad tale of the allegedly lethal review that John Wilson Croker gave to Endymion by John Keats. It's one of those moments in literary history that, in hindsight, might be reduced to "Wah, Croker was stupid and Keats was a genius, so nyah." This is probably easier to say with a straight face if the speaker hasn't read Endymion.
Then again, Croker didn't actually read Endymion, either, and confesses to it freely in his review, which brings us to Pinsky's core argument: a review in good faith should have three components:
1. The review must tell what the book is about.
2. The review must tell what the book's author says about that thing the book is about.
3. The review must tell what the reviewer thinks about what the book's author says about that thing the book is about.
Reviews that address #1 and #2 while scurrying away from hitting #3 are, therefore, failures as actual reviews. Someone who spends all their time on #3 without bothering with #1 or #2 is likewise deficient as a reviewer. And someone who doesn't bother with any of the three points is a rogue operator. This, in a nutshell, is why pure snark (which describes Croker's review of Endymion pretty well), is such a destructive mode of operations. Snark doesn't have to turn its back on all three rules, but it usually does.
Likewise, some other famously devastating reviews-- Mark Twain's takedown of James Fenimore Cooper and George Eliot's condemnation of an entire genre of 19th century novel-- are operating outside the rules. Twain pretty clearly doesn't care what Cooper thought his books were about; he's more interested in what contemporary critics think Cooper's books are about. It's a reaction not just to the text Cooper wrote, but to everything Cooper came to represent. It's funny as hell, but it's not really a good-faith review of the works. Eliot makes some suppositions about what the "lady novelists" intend in their mind-and-millinery books, and but in the end she doesn't actually care-- the broad menace posed by silly lady novelists matters more than what any one specimen of lady novelist might actually think. But the reviews are amazingly entertaining, and because we "know" Twain and Eliot we're in their corner, even if Twain's essay in particular has come into criticism for its bad-faith qualities.
[Twain didn't think much of Eliot, either, FWIW.]
So, in the end, two of the most famous critical essays in English lit are models of How Not to Do It. But what if they were? What if they operated within the good-faith boundaries? I'll let Pinsky have the last word on it for those who didn't click the links:
"In a sense, Croker cannot be blamed for being unpleasant, or mistaken, or for attacking a beloved figure: Being wrong in judgment and doing wrong as a person, it can be argued, are both within any reviewer's rights. In a book review, even the greatness of Keats and the poignancy of his life story are beside the point. Even John Wilson Croker's introductory confession might be tolerable if somehow, despite not reading most of John Keats' book, Croker had managed nonetheless to follow the Three Golden Rules—instead of ducking them. That is unforgivable."
Interesting stuff.
