The Good and Bad in the Ugly

In literature vulgarity is preferable to nullity, just as grocer’s port is preferable to distilled water. — W. H. AudenIn his recent book On Criticism, Noel Carroll informs us that the goal of criticism is to discover what is valuable and worthy of attention, and to provide compelling reasons why.Evaluation presupposes comparisons which cannot be made if all artworks are deemed “unique.” If however one accepts that this uniqueness is exaggerated, and that most if not all works of art fall into a genre, a stylistic movement, an artistic oeuvre, or tradition, then appraisal is possible. Without measurable criteria, evaluation cannot be based on reason. And without reason, Carroll tells us, we have no criticism.Ideally then, criticism presents reasoned evidence backed up by description, contextualization, classification, elucidation, interpretation and analysis; all utilized in an effort to prove the presence or absence of discovered value. Accurate depiction, fair and relevant comparison, and seamless reasoning combine to make the critic’s case.That no absolute right or wrong exists in literary evaluation is a truth, however, which ensures that a case is never closed. The carriage of aesthetic judgment has long been yoked to horses pulling in different directions: one heading for a stable, objective foundation against which to measure merit through time (in other words, a standard of excellence that can be used to judge new artistry); the other honouring personal, subjective, fugitive likes and dislikes, specific to locale and period.Like good lawyers, the best reviewers present the most persuasive, omnificent arguments. Problem is, just like in court, the straightforward delivery of evidence and facts does not guarantee that a case will be won. Theatrics and appeals to emotion are often required to win public favour.This explains why some critics, incapable, for example, of conveying with reason alone how appalling they think a work may be, craft pointed insults and stab them into the texts, and bodies' hearts, of those authors whose efforts they consider nugatory or offensive.This, figuratively speaking, is what happens when critics, fruitless in their search for suitably harsh decorous expression, lose control. Only by jumping the rails of reason and letting fly with invective, do they feel they can adequately honour their anger. Only through insult can they appropriately convey the urgency and import of their opinions, through outrage or bluster get their cases heard.When editors and authors fail, for example, to suitably conceive of and compile anthologies, or to adequately entertain and stimulate readers, critics will resort to name-calling.Some no doubt do this out of a wish to communicate, in the most forceful terms possible, the seriousness of their convictions; others do it out of malice, the pleasure of inflicting pain — Virginia Woolf, for instance, once claimed that the reason she enjoyed book reviewing so much was that it gave her the opportunity to be ‘nasty.’ Revenge often plays a role too. Writing a negative review is one of the best ways to salve old wounds, to slake festering slights. If someone attacks you, the incentive is great to find fault with their work. Critics too, in search of attention, often tend to judge more harshly when green and ambitious.Score-settling, resentment, laziness, schadenfreude, envy, sadism, wrath, gloom, betrayal, hypocrisy — these Dantesque transgressions often take hold and lead critical prose to places that hard fact and solid argument alone simply do not travel. With Dante, we might place critics guilty of these sins into categories: the stupid, or slothful, who, in failing to read closely the texts they review, write inaccurate descriptions and arrive at flawed conclusions; in spending little time crafting their criticism, use hackneyed phrasing and worn ideas. These souls belong in Limbo. The ambitious, who betray fairness at the behest of their appetite for fame, belong where souls are blown around eternally by an infernal hurricane. Those who willfully misread for ulterior ideological purposes, as traitors to the quest for true aesthetic value, might best dwell in the lowest circle of hell, immersed in ice up to their necks.In addition to these human foibles, the great sin of being boring and the fear of going unheard — a nightmarish shouting at the deaf; lighting the way for the blind — go far to explain the presence of insult and invective in criticism.It may also in part be attributable to a conflict-based society which thrives on an ethic of aggression, an environment of Snark, where contempt, argument and confrontation are hailed as strengths; compromise, conciliation and naivety as weaknesses. But in Canada, there is more.Anyone who has paid any attention at all to the tale of Canadian literary criticism knows that Hugh Mclennan’s Two Solitudes describes not only Canada’s linguistic divide but also the world of difference which exists between those who boundlessly praise and celebrate the qualities of our national output — mediocre or otherwise — and those who are more circumspect; between superlative-debasing nationalists who boost and cheer and laud all that we produce — every kid gets a passing grade regardless of performance or comprehension — and those who view with disgust this pattern of using literature as patriotism’s lackey, who, understanding that masterpieces are rarely written, demand competition and comparison with the best in the world. This camp’s complaint is that the urge to create a unique national literature, judged on its own terms instead of by international standards, results in flabby, insipid writing, sheltered as it is from the whetstone of the Western Canon.Given the terrain that separates establishment and non-establishment camps, where the best according to one side, (M.G. Vassanji, Ann Carson, Roo Borson) are the worst according to the other, one cannot help but conclude that more than aesthetic consideration separates the trenches. The field is in fact littered with corpses from old skirmishes, the result: blackballing, rejection and exclusion from anthologies, prize lists, and professional perquisites. Negative reviews rarely go unpunished in Canada’s shallow literary pond. A sort of critical libel-chill frosts this country’s written landscape. Direct, honest criticism — the handmaid of excellence —is its casualty.Despite the free-pass that has long been granted Canadian writing, talented—albeit isolated—critical voices have, over the years, been raised: John Metcalf and David Solway come to mind. For the most part they go unheeded by the ‘establishment,’ unheard by most of a population more enamoured with ice hockey than with poetry or prose. Little wonder we hear, with increasing frequency, curses of frustration, disappointment and anger from these and similar critics. Decades of description, comparison, analysis, and considered evaluation seem to have made little difference. Audiences remain small. Mediocrity continues to pass for sublimity.The price paid for negative reviews tends to be much dearer in Canada than elsewhere. The literary establishment brooks little of it. The media tends to steer clear of it. The community simply isn’t large enough — in mind or number — to contain, encourage, or foster the kind of aggressive debate congenial to the development of top tier creative output. And, for the most part, the population doesn’t care. A significant audience for literature in Canada just doesn’t exist.The limited pool of resources, prizes and plums for writers in Canada makes honest reviewing a decidedly imprudent practice. There are a finite number of writer residency and grant programs available in the land, and a small pool from which to pull jurors and adjudicators. Telling the truth in these confined quarters might best defined as ‘career limiting’ lunacy.Insulting language can be hurtful to its victims, and harmful to its perpetrators when used without authority. There are times however when it is appropriate. Subjects may clearly deserve telling off. For example, although distasteful and vulgar, Dale Peck’s assault on David Foster Wallace’s dense doorstop of a novel Infinite Jest was, I think, reasoned and warranted.Referring to an unresolvable tension that exists between ‘monstrosity and truth telling,’ The New Yorker’s book critic James Wood has suggested that the wavering line between criticism and hostility is a constant in book reviewing, one that’s unlikely to go away. At worst, ad hominem attacks exemplify the lowest levels of anti-intellectualism and contribute to a toxic atmosphere of incivility. At best they display, in a Darwinian sense, the kind of admirable passion for literature required to fire struggle and debate — necessary for the discovery, nurturing, and forging of quality.Just as good, clean fisticuffs add life and excitement to hockey games, so too do verbal dust-ups season the literary scene. Insults, if the Salon des Refusés experiment is any indication, incite responses which often times contain new vigor, and argument superior to initial criticisms, all of which has the effect of strengthening and popularizing literary debate.Just as babies die in their cradles when ignored, so too will Canada’s quest for literary excellence if its inhabitants fail to pay attention. If swearing and name calling, however hurtful, is what it takes to encourage this country to give a shit about literature, then bring it on, and let’s hope that those under attack grow a layer of skin or two — and the balls to respond not with picayune behind-the-scenes boycotting or jury rigging, but with bold, visible, large-minded rejoinder.