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Notes on Arnold’s “Modern Literature”

Posted on 04 October 2009 by Gerald Lucas

‘Arnold attempts in this speech, “On the Modern Element in Literature,” a “general survey of classical literature” in an effort to deliver his age from its current imperfection, i.e., to comprehend man’s present and past. He suggests that for an epoch to be great, it must have a significant spectacle to contemplate and one who discovers a true point from which to view and present this spectacle. This artist, says Arnold, “is one of his age’s intellectual deliverers” (20).
The spectacle, Arnold continues, constitutes the collective life of humanity: events, institutions, art, literature, etc. So, by studying the spectacles of others ages, “to know how others stand, . . . we may know how we ourselves stand,” and we can then try to correct our mistakes in order to achieve our deliverance (21). The study of literature, therefore, will enlighten us and contribute to our intellectual deliverance if we study the great letters from great epochs (23).
Arnold illustrates his great epoch/lit with a look at the intellectual maturity of the ancient Athenian culture. They stopped wearing arms, signifying a comfort and security in the citizens; they maintained an elegant simplicity–a general refinement and elegance in life; they practiced a recreation for the spirit, individual diversity, and pleasures of the body. Arnold concludes that “the fifth century in Greece before our era is a significant and modern epoch, the poetry of that epoch–the poetry of Pindar, Æschylus, and Sophocles–is an adequate representation and interpretation of it” (29). Aristophanes also falls into this classical group, but Homer does not; Homer’s times do not share the interesting qualities of his literature (31). The Roman Lucretius, though his portrayal of ennui is both modern and accurate, is not a classic because he represents only a limited view of the grandeur of Rome. What about Virgil? Is he “adequate”? Nope. While he possessed a great learning and delicate genius which make him “the most attractive figure in literary history,” he does not interpret Roman life adequately. Horace? He, like Chaucer, is not serious enough to encompass the broad rage of human characteristics (36). In fact, Roman culture was a deep and significant period, but it did not have a commensurate literature (37).
Finally, Arnold sums up by suggesting that one cannot understand our own intellectual history without looking at others, especially those of classical antiquity.

Arnold attempts in this speech, “On the Modern Element in Literature,” a “general survey of classical literature” in an effort to deliver his age from its current imperfection, i.e., to comprehend man’s present and past. He suggests that for an epoch to be great, it must have a significant spectacle to contemplate and one who discovers a true point from which to view and present this spectacle. This artist, says Arnold, “is one of his age’s intellectual deliverers” (20).

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Arnold’s Disinterested Critic

Posted on 04 October 2009 by Gerald Lucas

Matthew Arnold, in his “The Function of Criticism at the Present Time,” examines the role of the critic in society and the idea that the “critical power” is of lower rank than the “creative power” (260). He suggests that the critic, before s/he puts pen to paper, must inquire of his or her motivations: what real service am I doing for my “own mind and spirit, and to the minds and spirits of others” (260)? The critic’s role is one of a personal and social nature, but s/he must maintain what Arnold calls “disinterestedness” to produce a proper critique.
Literature, Arnold begins, is a product of current ideas. Literature does not create these ideas; they are the works of philosophy and science. However, through synthesis and exposition of this intellectual atmosphere, the writer combines the elements of his or her zeitgeist into a beautiful work (260-1). Therefore, for the work of literature to be produced, two concomitant powers must exist synergistically: the writer and the moment (261).
The critic’s role, Arnold suggests, sets the stage for the creation of literature by ordering and interpreting the zeitgeist and making the best ideas of the time prevail. The critic’s job “in all branches of knowledge, theology, philosophy, history, art, science, [is] to see the object as in itself it really is” (261). That “object,” I interpret, represents the ideas (in their various forms–treatises, poems, etc.) to be critiqued. The critic’s work, then, influences the creative power of writers and precipitates the “creative epochs of literature” (261).
The act of criticism, Arnold continues, concerns two terms: curiosity and disinterestedness. The former seeks out what is “best known and thought in the world,” but which is not linked to any one practice. Therefore, this curiosity must practice a disinterestedness that allows for the “free play of the mind” on all subjects that it addresses; i.e., criticism should not have an agenda (270). Therefore, the critic must free him- or herself from practical considerations and concentrate on creating a “current of true and fresh ideas” (270). Practical considerations, suggests Arnold, represent the bane of critical inquiry, stifling and undermining the free play of mind (270).
By keeping its distinction from practical considerations, criticism may function in its “best spiritual work”: keeping human society free from complacency. The work of the critic challenges and questions, refusing to let the mind stagnate; it engages humans in a dialectic meant to “lead [them] towards perfection, by making [their] mind dwell upon what is excellent in itself, and the absolute beauty and fitness of things” (271). This action, itself a creative endeavor, enables a blinding of sorts to the agendas of their affiliations (271).
Yet, though this practice, the critic risks misunderstanding and unpopularity. Arnold asks, how does one affect the practical person with ostensibly impractical theory (275)? The practical person views the British Constitution as an august work of virtue and farsightedness, but when the critic sees a document that is little more than “a colossal machine for the manufacture of Philistines,” how can the critic be true to this observation and influence the practical mind (275)? Yes, agrees Arnold, the critic will be misunderstood, but, nevertheless, to refuse any cause that would require “a chairman, a secretary, and advertisements”–how-ever virtuous the cause–must be the critic’s duty (276).
This disinterestedness may seem contrary to the critic’s goal of helping humanity achieve a perfection, but this trait must be one of the mind and not one of action. Yet, if the critic interacts within his society, then how can s/he truly practice an objective disinterestedness? For example, how can there exist a literary critic? By modifying “critic” with “literary,” does that not give the critic an interest? Yes, conceivably the critic could look objectively at a work of literature, but the critic intends his or her work to influence the course of literary studies in order that it might achieve a perfection.  Or, does disinterested mean an approach to a text that is uncolored by a particular ideological framework, like Marxism, Feminism, or Structuralism? Arnold suggests that criticism “seeks to have the best that is known and thought on [a] problem”; literary critics, then, attempt to discover the best approach to the construction and representation of that which is literary. So while criticism in general seeks to “find us”–i.e., to lead to the perfection of the human being–literary criticism is a microcosm which seeks (perhaps) to find the best in literature.
Arnold’s disinterested critic, while obviously idealistic, seems somehow responsible for the academic’s withdrawal from the practical, “real” world. His privileged view of the critic has perhaps propagated the ivory-tower intellectualism that has recently come under attack by many critics of academia. Can we academics–who are, after all, critics–idealistically shut ourselves off in that tower and expect to make a positive influence on the course of human events? What happens to the critic in his or her rarefied milieu? I seem to recall that one who voluntarily or out of compulsion separates her- or himself from social and cultural (practical?) influences becomes less-than-human. So, how can a sub-human realistically hope to affect the progress of society in a positive manner? Perhaps this situation takes Arnold’s disinterestedness too far? Probably not. While having consequences for the academic, the ivory tower can only succeed in estranging the critic from what it is s/he is supposed to be criticizing, be it society, religion, or literature.
More than likely the raison d’être of literary criticism is to aim beyond itself. As long as literary criticism’s interests lie within the scope of literature, then it has an interest. However, if the criticism of literary texts aims at the further development of humanity, then its practice must fulfill a disinterestedness within the scope of literature. Criticism must, states Arnold, “be perpetually dissatisfied with [all] works, while they perpetually fall short of a high and perfect ideal” (280). Criticism might praise certain elements of literature (and any other works), but must maintain a dissatisfaction with the whole as long as it falls short of the fullness of spiritual perfection (280-1).
The critic, finally, is the propagator of art, culture, and society. Through the critic’s work, fresh and true ideas are examined and passed into the world in order to shape and influence the creative mind. Without criticism, Arnold believes, the flow of creativity and progress would be arrested.

Matthew Arnold, in his “The Function of Criticism at the Present Time,” examines the role of the critic in society and the idea that the “critical power” is of lower rank than the “creative power” (260). He suggests that the critic, before s/he puts pen to paper, must inquire of his or her motivations: what real service am I doing for my “own mind and spirit, and to the minds and spirits of others” (260)? The critic’s role is one of a personal and social nature, but s/he must maintain what Arnold calls “disinterestedness” to produce a proper critique.

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Shelley’s Defense of Poetry

Posted on 28 September 2009 by Gerald Lucas

Shelley begins his “A Defense of Poetry” by making a distinction between reason and imagination: “Reason is the enumeration of quantities already known; imagination is the perception of the value of those quantities, both separately and as a whole” (109). Shelley likens reason to analysis and imagination to synthesis; reason examines the workings of particulars, and imagination–while keeping the particulars in mind–offers a more holistic view. Poetry, states Shelley, expresses the imagination and is entwined with the origins of humanity (109). Shelley exalts poetry as the bearer of humanity’s most profound truths; these truths speak of a universality, disregarding time and location, of order and beauty that legislates the world. Poetry keeps humanity human.

A Defense of Poetry illustrates the Zeitgeist of Shelley’s time. He saw the beginning of the nineteenth century as a time of rebirth from the tyrannies of the “grosser sciences” that continually seek to keep humans slaves, separated from imagination and its expression (134). Such tyrannies–the products of “reasoners” and “mechanics”–keep the imagination stifled and fettered in the shackles of rationalism and familiarity (131-4). When the rational faculties are emphasized over the creative faculties, then humanity loses sight of eternal truths and concentrates only on the acquisition of temporary pleasures and utilitarian fortunes. Yet, states Shelley, only when balanced with the imagination can science and its products be a boon to humanity, for the useful “strengthens and purifies the affections, enlarges the imagination, and adds spirit to the sense” (132). Far from a technophobe, Shelley remained cautious about scientific advancements that overshadowed the creative spirit. A society based on the “selfish and calculating principle” could only produce external values which effaced the spirit in lieu of quantifiable materials and measurable wealth (135). Shelley’s dystopian vision, ostensibly not unlike our own society almost two-hundred years distant, could only be ameliorated by the work of the poet.

The poet eschews the monotonous, quotidian world through an ability to defamiliarize. Like distorting the sunlight and all it shines upon, the poet “makes us the inhabitants of a world to which the familiar world is a chaos” (137). A verbal magician, the poet trans-forms the mundane into the fantastic through imagination. The poet stimulates the ob-server’s own creative impulses to produce new materials for knowledge, power, and pleas-ure; the poet’s creations inspire the mind to mold a reality and order based on the good and the beautiful (134-5). The good, then, has its genesis in the exploration of the creative im-pulse; i.e., an emancipation from the prison of stifling familiarity can only lead to the good.

Indeed, the implications of that last statement exemplify Shelley’s vision of the poet and explain the Romantics’ propensity to venerate Milton’s Satan above his God. Shelley suggests that because he perseveres despite adversity and continues even though his efforts will only lead to more suffering, Milton’s Satan “as a moral being is far superior to [Milton's] God” (129). Satan challenges God’s dominance and authority; God casts Lucifer and his followers out of paradise, but Satan still attempts to thwart his nemesis by influencing His creation. Satan, therefore, introduces imagination into the world by convincing Eve to ask questions about God’s law, asserting her own creativity and self-reliance. Satan, then, illustrates Shelley’s goodness and beauty by stimulating the imagination in his hearer: Eve. Through Satan’s ministrations, humans were able to make their own choices and assert their own creativity and individuality on their world.

Shelley’s poet introduces difference into the world in en effort to promote unity. Poetry is divine in that it provides the seed for all of humanity’s creations: religions, institutions, politics, philosophy, and technology. Difference produces dialectic; anthesis (going back to Hegel) produces synthesis. The imagination exists within this synthesis, helping to make the products universally important. The pleasure poetry produces in its observers stimulates the imagination, leading to more expressions of eternal beauty and goodness. Each synthesis is an innovation–a revolution–a new way of knowing the world and perceiving the truth (114-5). Shelley suggests that “A poem is the image of life expressed in its eternal truth” (115). The poet’s expression demonstrates this eternal truth better than the didactic versifier or pedantic priest; the poetry itself influences the moral health of humanity (117-8).

While Shelley’s philosophy of the poet may be a positive, liberating belief in an intellectual capacity, the political implications would probably result in a French Revolution every twenty years or so. Rather than interpreting Shelley’s Defense as a pragmatic manual for life, it should be considered as an intellectual manifesto. Salman Rushdie’s novel The Satanic Verses asks “What kind of idea am I?” suggesting a twentieth-century interpretation of Shelley’s heresies. They are both suggesting the same thing, are they not? Rushdie calls for freedom from the thoughtless acceptance of religious faith and a trust of one’s own voice and how it responds to and with humanity’s polyphony. Shelley seeks similar ends. He repudiates Descartes’ ascetic vision of the “little world of self” and seeks to reconcile the poet’s place within society (128). Also like Rushsie, Shelley heretically states that while Jesus’ vision contained the “most vivid poetry,” his followers, seeking to codify and dogmatize, quickly distorted and effaced his poetic principle in an effort to create a practical institu-tion (125-6). How does one institutionalize a revolution anyway?

Shelley, recalling Vico, suggests that the poets were the first harmonizers–the first creators of society:

Homer was the first and Dante the second epic poet: that is, the second poet, the series of whose creations bore a defined and intelligible relation to the knowledge and sentiment and religion and political conditions of the age in which he lived, and of the ages which followed it: developing itself in correspondence with their development. (130)

The poet produces and is produced by his society. The great poets synthesize their present age and point to the future ages. Their expressions are representative of their age and also of all time. These poets keep the poetic principle alive within their listeners, instructing through their/our imagination. They legislate humanity by keeping it human.

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On Kant’s “Aesthetic Judgment”

Posted on 22 September 2009 by Gerald Lucas

The only thing that would be more ponderous and difficult than trudging through Kant’s prose in his Critique of Aesthetic Judgment would be attempting to put his aesthetic philosophy found within to the test. Kant delivers a paucity of practical examples to make his recondite and ostensibly inconsistent abstractions all the more difficult to assimilate. In an attempt understand and make his knowledge mine, and perhaps include commentary on the more lucid sections, this essay will attempt to define and cross-reference some of his key critical terms.

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Plato Revisited: Augustine’s Confessions

Posted on 16 September 2009 by Gerald Lucas

Generally speaking, Augustine’s Confessions seems to be a reworking of Plato’s metaphysics in relation to a Christian cosmology. Augustine speaks of the dichotomy between the body and the soul, the falseness of rhetoric, memory, sublimity, and desire. In addressing oratory, Augustine recalls Plato’s Gorgias and its subject matter inspired by rhetoric: Truth and the human condition.

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Plato’s Republic, Book X Notes

Posted on 08 September 2009 by Gerald Lucas

In Book X of the Republic, Plato states: “all poetical imitations are ruinous to the understanding of the hearers, and that the knowledge of their true nature is the only anidote to them.” Plato believed that imitation of sensible objects removed the poet, and the observer, from truth and reality by inspiring the emotions of pity and fear. Plato argued that philosophical knowledge is far superior that the mere imitative nature of art.

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Aristotle’s Poetics of Purging

Posted on 28 August 2009 by Gerald Lucas

Plato’s banishment of the poets in the Republic is based upon an ideological and moral accusation: poets are imitators of things removed from reality and they cater to the emotions—the irrational nature of pity and fear. These two concepts, “imitation” and “pity and fear,” are at the heart of Aristotle’s Poetics. The Poetics posits a defense for these two criteria, and, according to Aristotle, represent integral elements in all poetics, especially tragedy.

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Plato’s Phaedrus: Talk of Love

Posted on 25 August 2009 by Gerald Lucas

Exchanging pleasantries about the weather, Socrates and Phaedrus walk on the outskirts of Athens; the balmy day seems an appropriate setting for their discussion of love. The oppressive heat compels the peregrinating duo to take shelter next to a river until the temperature cools enough to allow them to continue. Phaedrus addresses much of the subject matter contained in Gorgias, rhetoric and right living, and closes with a discussion of writing. Yet these discussions are products of the pair’s original topic: love.

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Revenge Tragedy

Posted on 19 March 2009 by Nancy Bunker

For the purpose of judging and examining plays, understanding genre enables clarity. In the Poetics, Aristotle (384-322 B.C.) defines tragedy as an imitation of a single, unified, action that is serious, complete, and has a certain magnitude. Tragedy deals with the fall of someone whose character is good, believable, and consistent; importantly, the fall is caused by an error or frailty (hamartia – tragic flaw) rather than a vice or depravity. Philosophies about fate, fortune, and circumstances may intersect with the misfortunes of the hero, but the ups and downs of life are related to the issue of free will (not destiny) in the settling of plot.  It is at the point of free will that revenge tragedy takes a distinct generic turn.

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Neoclassicism: Major Ideas

Posted on 26 January 2009 by Gerald Lucas

The following are major ideas held by conservative writers and thinkers of Neoclassicism, e.g. Dryden, Pope, Swift, Johnson, Gay, Butler, Rochester, Gibbon, Mandeville, Burlte, Reynolds, and Smollet.

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