4 Shakespeare Studies Today as in Fahnestock and Secor,because the identification was no longer taken seriously.The "institutionalized norms"and "field-dependent constraints"had changed radically from those in place sustaining the "secular theodicy"of Greenblatt's professional formation. Three:In 2001,Greenblatt published a book on Hamlet in Purgatory, in which he predicates his whole endeavor on a passionate engagement with textual energy: My only goal was to immerse myself in the tragedy's magical intensity.It seems a bit absurd to bear witness to the intensity of Hamlet;but my profession has become so oddly diffident and even phobic about literary power,so suspicious and tense,that it risks losing sight ofor at least failing to articulate-the whole reason anyone bothers with the enterprise in the first place.The ghost in Hamlet is...amazingly disturbing and vivid.I wanted to let the feeling of this vividness wash over me,and I wanted to understand how it was achieved.(p.4) In effect,Greenblatt does an about face from the resistance described eleven years earlier in Learning to Curse,and the resulting position seems to exhibit a surprising sympathy now for the "secular theodicy"he found so“irritating'”then. This neat account falls considerably short of adding up to a serious historical interpretation.At once overdramatized and underanalyzed,it allows us to chart a sequence of abrupt changes of mind,or of heart,but not the motivating factors that might connect them within the struc- ture of a coherent understanding.(The effect is like the title Artie Shaw gave to the story of his much-married and divorced life,I love you,I hate you,drop dead!,with a further twist,I love you again.)In order for it to add up as historical explanation,we would need to pull it down from the Key Dates and Great Men mode and fill in the gaps with general trends.The intensity-aversion would not be putting it too strongly- with which Greenblatt repudiated his literary training was not a single doom;a whole generation of critics felt a similar disenchantment.This broad-based realignment of literary studies,which has been the subject of countless analyses,can be summed up with Edward Said's term, “worldlines.”The attempt to make criticism a more“worldly”enter-- prise-bringing with it history and power and the body,among many other highly charged terms and ideas,including,of course,race,class, and gender-endowed an exhausted practice with a newly energized sense of purpose
4 Shakespeare Studies Today as in Fahnestock and Secor, because the identification was no longer taken seriously. The “institutionalized norms” and “field-dependent constraints” had changed radically from those in place sustaining the “secular theodicy” of Greenblatt’s professional formation. Three: In 2001, Greenblatt published a book on Hamlet in Purgatory, in which he predicates his whole endeavor on a passionate engagement with textual energy: My only goal was to immerse myself in the tragedy’s magical intensity. It seems a bit absurd to bear witness to the intensity of Hamlet; but my profession has become so oddly diffident and even phobic about literary power, so suspicious and tense, that it risks losing sight of—or at least failing to articulate—the whole reason anyone bothers with the enterprise in the first place. The ghost in Hamlet is . . . amazingly disturbing and vivid. I wanted to let the feeling of this vividness wash over me, and I wanted to understand how it was achieved. (p. 4) In effect, Greenblatt does an about face from the resistance described eleven years earlier in Learning to Curse, and the resulting position seems to exhibit a surprising sympathy now for the “secular theodicy” he found so “irritating” then. This neat account falls considerably short of adding up to a serious historical interpretation. At once overdramatized and underanalyzed, it allows us to chart a sequence of abrupt changes of mind, or of heart, but not the motivating factors that might connect them within the structure of a coherent understanding. (The effect is like the title Artie Shaw gave to the story of his much-married and divorced life, I love you, I hate you, drop dead!, with a further twist, I love you again.) In order for it to add up as historical explanation, we would need to pull it down from the Key Dates and Great Men mode and fill in the gaps with general trends. The intensity—aversion would not be putting it too strongly— with which Greenblatt repudiated his literary training was not a single doom; a whole generation of critics felt a similar disenchantment. This broad-based realignment of literary studies, which has been the subject of countless analyses, can be summed up with Edward Said’s term, “worldliness.” The attempt to make criticism a more “worldly” enterprise—bringing with it history and power and the body, among many other highly charged terms and ideas, including, of course, race, class, and gender—endowed an exhausted practice with a newly energized sense of purpose
INTRODUCTION 5 By 1999,however,when Said addressed the members of the Modern Language Association of America(MLA)in his capacity as president, he acknowledged that the achieved worldliness in literary studies had turned out to be a mixed blessing.He warns against"the dan- gers of transforming the classroom into an arena for the solution,or at least the battleground,of social and political problems."He worries about the effects on "literary and humanistic education"if it comes "under the influence of daily issues like citizens'rights,new legislation, the restructuring of power,the problems of minorities,and so on";for “our brief time in the classroom”not to be“squandered,”he argues,. we need"a patient,scrupulous reading of texts;a detailed respect for the painstaking effort for clarity of utterance;a careful attempt,in R.P. Blackmur's memorable phrase,to bring literature to performance"("An Unresolved Paradox"). Said is not backing away from his belief that"all the great literary works are themselves saturated with worldly concerns."His account, however,recognizes that this belief has by now become more or less routine;the exhilarated expectation with which a worldly practice first coalesced into a critical program("putting the text back into history" was the phrase of choice in the early 1980s)has largely disappeared. On the other side,meanwhile,an increased anxiety about the negative consequences of the program has emerged into prominence,and Said describes these consequences in the strongest terms."Squandering our brief time in the classroom"is as much as to suggest that our occupa- tion's gone. Said's qualms help to explain the second of Greenblatt's reversals in the scheme outlined above.In his discomfort-aversion would,in this case,be putting it too strongly-with the "phobic"tone of cur- rent work,Greenblatt seems now to be pulling back from his earlier disparagement of"the relentlessly celebratory character"of his literary training.And here too,his position is exemplary rather than eccen- tric,not so much leading as reading the Zeitgeist:a critical mass of Shakespeareans (and of non-Shakespearean inhabitants of literature departments)share his discomfort and are beginning to look back with a similarly tentative longing to something like the traditional literary values they repudiated a generation earlier. The question,though,is whether this longing is substantial enough to put us on a path out from the malaise in which we are situated, and the answer,I think,is probably not.Greenblatt's references to the "magical intensity"of"literary power"produce a powerful but only temporary impact.The terms are quickly evoked and then abruptly
Introduction 5 By 1999, however, when Said addressed the members of the Modern Language Association of America (MLA) in his capacity as president, he acknowledged that the achieved worldliness in literary studies had turned out to be a mixed blessing. He warns against “the dangers of transforming the classroom into an arena for the solution, or at least the battleground, of social and political problems.” He worries about the effects on “literary and humanistic education” if it comes “under the influence of daily issues like citizens’ rights, new legislation, the restructuring of power, the problems of minorities, and so on”; for “our brief time in the classroom” not to be “squandered,” he argues, we need “a patient, scrupulous reading of texts; a detailed respect for the painstaking effort for clarity of utterance; a careful attempt, in R. P. Blackmur’s memorable phrase, to bring literature to performance” (“An Unresolved Paradox”). Said is not backing away from his belief that “all the great literary works are themselves saturated with worldly concerns.” His account, however, recognizes that this belief has by now become more or less routine; the exhilarated expectation with which a worldly practice first coalesced into a critical program (“putting the text back into history” was the phrase of choice in the early 1980s) has largely disappeared. On the other side, meanwhile, an increased anxiety about the negative consequences of the program has emerged into prominence, and Said describes these consequences in the strongest terms. “Squandering our brief time in the classroom” is as much as to suggest that our occupation’s gone. Said’s qualms help to explain the second of Greenblatt’s reversals in the scheme outlined above. In his discomfort—aversion would, in this case, be putting it too strongly—with the “phobic” tone of current work, Greenblatt seems now to be pulling back from his earlier disparagement of “the relentlessly celebratory character” of his literary training. And here too, his position is exemplary rather than eccentric, not so much leading as reading the Zeitgeist: a critical mass of Shakespeareans (and of non-Shakespearean inhabitants of literature departments) share his discomfort and are beginning to look back with a similarly tentative longing to something like the traditional literary values they repudiated a generation earlier. The question, though, is whether this longing is substantial enough to put us on a path out from the malaise in which we are situated, and the answer, I think, is probably not. Greenblatt’s references to the “magical intensity” of “literary power” produce a powerful but only temporary impact. The terms are quickly evoked and then abruptly
6 Shakespeare Studies Today dropped,as if in embarrassment(they sound,he admits,"a bit absurd"). They have little immediate bearing on the discussion in Hamlet in Purgatory,and except for the perfunctory assertions stuck on to the end of chapter 1,that“modern thinkers'”have“been dismayingly insensi-- tive to the imaginative dimension that most fascinated"Renaissance audiences,,and that“What we call ideology'”is what“Renaissance England called poetry"(pp.45-6),they disappear.Moreover,it is hard to get a handle on "the whole reason anyone bothers with the enter- prise in the first place."After all,Greenblatt's own engagement with the enterprise "in the first place,"as described in Learning to Curse, included a very substantial element of distaste for the celebratory tone he now uses to describe“literary power,”“aesthetics,”and the“imagi- native dimension."It is as though he is recoiling from the recoil of his previous position,but this disaffection from an earlier aversion-a kind of double negative,"my enemy's enemy is my friend"-does not inspire confidence as an adequate motivation to propel us out from the "doldrums"in which we feel ourselves to be stranded. The first two parts of this book proceed from the claims I have just set forth.In the Introduction to Part One,"Discipline and Desire," I develop the idea that the vigor and stability of a critical practice depend more on conviction and desire than on intellectual coher- ence.Chapter 1,"Return of the Aesthetic?",reviews some of the many expressions in Shakespearean and literary study of a renewed interest in literary power and tries to account for their failure to add up to much more than the sum of their scattered parts,mainly,as I take it,because of the inadequate desire by which they are motivated.Chapter 2 shifts the focus to materialism,which is what worldly criticism is gener- ally called these days,specifically to the mounting evidence that mate- rialist criticism cannot deliver the political consequence it originally promised.What's left of materialist criticism,I argue,is little more than its discontent with the purported"idealism"of traditional literary study-hence the title of the chapter,"Negative Desire:Materialism and its Discontents."Negative desire is the subject of Part Two as well. "What's Wrong with Literature?"describes the explicit repudiation of literary interest among some Shakespearean performance critics and editorial theorists,the New Theatricalists and the New Textualists, who include the most distinguished and influential practitioners in the field. I have so far said nothing about Romanticism,which appears in the title of the book and of Part Three and is central to the second and third of the claims from which this Introduction began.As a way
6 Shakespeare Studies Today dropped, as if in embarrassment (they sound, he admits, “a bit absurd”). They have little immediate bearing on the discussion in Hamlet in Purgatory, and except for the perfunctory assertions stuck on to the end of chapter 1, that “modern thinkers” have “been dismayingly insensitive to the imaginative dimension that most fascinated” Renaissance audiences, and that “What we call ideology” is what “Renaissance England called poetry” (pp. 45–6), they disappear. Moreover, it is hard to get a handle on “the whole reason anyone bothers with the enterprise in the first place.” After all, Greenblatt’s own engagement with the enterprise “in the first place,” as described in Learning to Curse, included a very substantial element of distaste for the celebratory tone he now uses to describe “literary power,” “aesthetics,” and the “imaginative dimension.” It is as though he is recoiling from the recoil of his previous position, but this disaffection from an earlier aversion—a kind of double negative, “my enemy’s enemy is my friend”—does not inspire confidence as an adequate motivation to propel us out from the “doldrums” in which we feel ourselves to be stranded. The first two parts of this book proceed from the claims I have just set forth. In the Introduction to Part One, “Discipline and Desire,” I develop the idea that the vigor and stability of a critical practice depend more on conviction and desire than on intellectual coherence. Chapter 1, “Return of the Aesthetic?”, reviews some of the many expressions in Shakespearean and literary study of a renewed interest in literary power and tries to account for their failure to add up to much more than the sum of their scattered parts, mainly, as I take it, because of the inadequate desire by which they are motivated. Chapter 2 shifts the focus to materialism, which is what worldly criticism is generally called these days, specifically to the mounting evidence that materialist criticism cannot deliver the political consequence it originally promised. What’s left of materialist criticism, I argue, is little more than its discontent with the purported “idealism” of traditional literary study—hence the title of the chapter, “Negative Desire: Materialism and its Discontents.” Negative desire is the subject of Part Two as well. “What’s Wrong with Literature?” describes the explicit repudiation of literary interest among some Shakespearean performance critics and editorial theorists, the New Theatricalists and the New Textualists, who include the most distinguished and influential practitioners in the field. I have so far said nothing about Romanticism, which appears in the title of the book and of Part Three and is central to the second and third of the claims from which this Introduction began. As a way
INTRODUCTION 7 into Romanticism,come back to the phrase I puzzled over just earlier, "in the first place."I took the phrase in a personal and psychological sense,this is what motivates someone to go into literary study and concentrate on Shakespeare,but it can be taken in a historical and ontological sense as well,this is where Shakespeare and literary study originates and this is what it is,both of which senses lead to Romanticism.The great Romantic critics were,of course,unequivocally invested in the value of"myri- ad-minded Shakespeare,"as Coleridge called him."People would not trouble their heads about Shakespear,"according to Hazlitt,"if he had given them no pleasure,or cry him up to the skies,if he had not first raised them there.The world are not grateful for nothing." Such claims do not originate with the Romantics.As R.W.Babcock demonstrated years ago in The Genesis of Shakespeare Idolatry,the Romantics inherited Bardolatry from their immediate predecessors, who centered their appreciation in the power of Shakespearean drama to generate an intense affective interest in its dramatic characters. But Babcock's conclusion,that Shakespeare criticism in "the early nineteenth century merely echoed the late eighteenth"(p.226),over- states the matter.Keats's admiration for the "camelion"Shakespeare, taking "as much delight in conceiving an lago or an Imogen"(Scott, p.195),transports an engagement with Shakespearean character into a territory that William Richardson and Elizabeth Montagu and Dr. Johnson,even if they could imagine what it looked like,had no desire to visit. How Keats(and Coleridge and Hazlitt)found their way to such a place is,like many examples of radical innovation,hard to explain. Maurice Morgann's Essay on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff (1777)seems irresistible as a source.Dr.Johnson,like the shocked"vir- tuous philosopher"in Keats's letter,dismissed Morgann in terms imme- diately relevant to the discussion here:"as he has proved Falstaff to be no coward,he may prove lago to be a very good character"(Boswell, p.1213).At the end of the Romantic line,A.C.Bradley,reviewing an anthology of eighteenth-century Shakespearean commentary,reflected on"the gradual dawn of the romantic movement"and declared that if Morgann's Essay "could be taken as a fair example of that generation, we should have to say that the century,some time before it closed,had reached in principle the whole position in which criticism has rested from the days of Schlegel and Coleridge"("Eighteenth Century,"294). But Morgann had "disappeared almost completely"by the time the Romantics were writing (Fineman,p.23),and there is no evidence they knew of him let alone actually read his work.We are dealing with
Introduction 7 into Romanticism, come back to the phrase I puzzled over just earlier, “in the first place.” I took the phrase in a personal and psychological sense, this is what motivates someone to go into literary study and concentrate on Shakespeare, but it can be taken in a historical and ontological sense as well, this is where Shakespeare and literary study originates and this is what it is, both of which senses lead to Romanticism. The great Romantic critics were, of course, unequivocally invested in the value of “myriad-minded Shakespeare,” as Coleridge called him. “People would not trouble their heads about Shakespear,” according to Hazlitt, “if he had given them no pleasure, or cry him up to the skies, if he had not first raised them there. The world are not grateful for nothing.” Such claims do not originate with the Romantics. As R. W. Babcock demonstrated years ago in The Genesis of Shakespeare Idolatry, the Romantics inherited Bardolatry from their immediate predecessors, who centered their appreciation in the power of Shakespearean drama to generate an intense affective interest in its dramatic characters. But Babcock’s conclusion, that Shakespeare criticism in “the early nineteenth century merely echoed the late eighteenth” (p. 226), overstates the matter. Keats’s admiration for the “camelion” Shakespeare, taking “as much delight in conceiving an Iago or an Imogen” (Scott, p. 195), transports an engagement with Shakespearean character into a territory that William Richardson and Elizabeth Montagu and Dr. Johnson, even if they could imagine what it looked like, had no desire to visit. How Keats (and Coleridge and Hazlitt) found their way to such a place is, like many examples of radical innovation, hard to explain. Maurice Morgann’s Essay on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff (1777) seems irresistible as a source. Dr. Johnson, like the shocked “virtuous philosopher” in Keats’s letter, dismissed Morgann in terms immediately relevant to the discussion here: “as he has proved Falstaff to be no coward, he may prove Iago to be a very good character” (Boswell, p. 1213). At the end of the Romantic line, A. C. Bradley, reviewing an anthology of eighteenth-century Shakespearean commentary, reflected on “the gradual dawn of the romantic movement” and declared that if Morgann’s Essay “could be taken as a fair example of that generation, we should have to say that the century, some time before it closed, had reached in principle the whole position in which criticism has rested from the days of Schlegel and Coleridge” (“Eighteenth Century,” 294). But Morgann had “disappeared almost completely” by the time the Romantics were writing (Fineman, p. 23), and there is no evidence they knew of him let alone actually read his work. We are dealing with
8 Shakespeare Studies Today a Zeitgeistliche affinity.In the same way,Romantic Shakespeareans,with Coleridge as something of an exception,seem to have had no direct contact with the ideas about aesthetic interest newly systematized by Kant among others in the German Enlightenment.They took advan- tage of these ideas nonetheless,as part of a concerted effort to expand the range of critical response to Shakespeare qualitatively beyond the established norms.In this respect,to return to my sweeping claim at the beginning,the Romantics invented Shakespeare studies,develop- ing the assumptions,methods,and goals that formed the foundation of our critical practice-from which,I am arguing in this book,we have become problematically far removed. It's a problem not just for Shakespeareans.It complicates professional life all across academic literary study,and for Romanticists perhaps most of all.The Introduction to Part Three describes a situation among Romanticists similar to(and even more intensely fraught than)the one I have been sketching out here:an uncertainty whether Romanticism exists as a meaningful subject and,at least since Jerome McGann's hugely influential Romantic Ideology appeared in 1983,an agenda defined by the aversion from and repudiation of its own critical traditions.The two chapters in Part Three look in some detail at what Romantic crit- ics said about literary form and about literary authorship.My main con- tention is that their reflections on these subjects are very different from what we understand them to be saying.Romantic critics were not,as they are regularly said to be,essentially "looking for the organic unity of the work";they were interested in the quality and intensity of an interpretive engagement largely independent of the textual object with which it engages.Nor were the Romantics essentially"looking for the author behind the text'”(ike“impasse”etal.at the beginning,these and many similar phrases will be attributed in due course).Romantic authorship is rather a heuristic than an empirical category:working not forward from textual origins but backward from aesthetic effects,the Romantics attempted to identify the kind of creative agency that might be imagined to account for the interest and delight readers and audi- ences take in Shakespeare's plays.Formalism and genius authors may deserve the opprobrium lavished on them at present,but these are not the values on which Hazlitt and Coleridge and the others founded an engagement with Shakespeare. If this underlying misrepresentation of our origins is contributing to the malaise reported in current accounts,then setting the record straight seems likely to help,and this likelihood is at the motivational center of Romanticism Lost.But any attempt to express the book's
8 Shakespeare Studies Today a Zeitgeistliche affinity. In the same way, Romantic Shakespeareans, with Coleridge as something of an exception, seem to have had no direct contact with the ideas about aesthetic interest newly systematized by Kant among others in the German Enlightenment. They took advantage of these ideas nonetheless, as part of a concerted effort to expand the range of critical response to Shakespeare qualitatively beyond the established norms. In this respect, to return to my sweeping claim at the beginning, the Romantics invented Shakespeare studies, developing the assumptions, methods, and goals that formed the foundation of our critical practice—from which, I am arguing in this book, we have become problematically far removed. It’s a problem not just for Shakespeareans. It complicates professional life all across academic literary study, and for Romanticists perhaps most of all. The Introduction to Part Three describes a situation among Romanticists similar to (and even more intensely fraught than) the one I have been sketching out here: an uncertainty whether Romanticism exists as a meaningful subject and, at least since Jerome McGann’s hugely influential Romantic Ideology appeared in 1983, an agenda defined by the aversion from and repudiation of its own critical traditions. The two chapters in Part Three look in some detail at what Romantic critics said about literary form and about literary authorship. My main contention is that their reflections on these subjects are very different from what we understand them to be saying. Romantic critics were not, as they are regularly said to be, essentially “looking for the organic unity of the work”; they were interested in the quality and intensity of an interpretive engagement largely independent of the textual object with which it engages. Nor were the Romantics essentially “looking for the author behind the text” (like “impasse” et al. at the beginning, these and many similar phrases will be attributed in due course). Romantic authorship is rather a heuristic than an empirical category: working not forward from textual origins but backward from aesthetic effects, the Romantics attempted to identify the kind of creative agency that might be imagined to account for the interest and delight readers and audiences take in Shakespeare’s plays. Formalism and genius authors may deserve the opprobrium lavished on them at present, but these are not the values on which Hazlitt and Coleridge and the others founded an engagement with Shakespeare. If this underlying misrepresentation of our origins is contributing to the malaise reported in current accounts, then setting the record straight seems likely to help, and this likelihood is at the motivational center of Romanticism Lost. But any attempt to express the book’s