16 Discipline and Desire what to study,questions of how to study must be an irrelevance"(p.38). Without a shared knowledge of what we are talking about,we can- not possibly produce the kind of work required to sustain a disciplinary practice.Fundamental disagreement about the nature of the subject,they conclude,is the main reason why we are"a discipline in crisis." This plausible claim seems to get immediate confirmation from the fact that a shared knowledge of what we are talking about is something we clearly do not have.The staggering diversity of work produced under the rubric of"Shakespeare criticism"makes it doubtful "whether 'Shakespeare'has much more than a nominal significance."I wrote this in 2000,reviewing "The Year's Contributions to Shakespeare Studies"(p.312);but however good it may have felt to get these words off my chest,I wasn't saying anything readers didn't already know. Shakespeareans have long recognized that their subject is made up out ofor filled up with-critical practices,the irresolvable differences of which preclude any strict intellectual coherence and prevent any effec- tive consensus. The question is,for how long have we known this?Has there ever been a time when Shakespeare and literary studies have not been required to accommodate an unmanageable variety of practices?"You can never draw the line between aesthetic criticism and moral and social criticism;you cannot draw a line between criticism and metaphys- ics;you start with literary criticism,and however rigorous an aesthete you may be,you are over the frontier into something else sooner or later."This is how the situation looked for T.S.Eliot in 1928(Dryden, p.xxiii),and it looked pretty much the same,a spacious territory with porous borders,as early as its conventionally designated point of origin among the Romantics.For Hazlitt,the imagination was not a special- ized poetic faculty but the motor of all human desire and behavior, with the result that literary studies was bound to be more of an eclec- tic bricolage than a strictly constructed method.The Romantics did not speak with one voice,and Coleridge was more strongly inclined than Hazlitt to define literary study as a critical practice distinct from all others.But the convergences among the Romantics outweigh the divergences(I'll be developing this claim in Part Three),and the point remains that the practitioners of literary study were from the beginning too inclusive in their interests to allow for any substantial agreement about“the object of study.” The absence of cognitive consensus,then,is not a recent aberra- tion but the variable constant from which Shakespeareans have always worked-the default framework,the humanities equivalent to"normal
16 Discipline and Desire what to study, questions of how to study must be an irrelevance” (p. 38). Without a shared knowledge of what we are talking about, we cannot possibly produce the kind of work required to sustain a disciplinary practice. Fundamental disagreement about the nature of the subject, they conclude, is the main reason why we are “a discipline in crisis.” This plausible claim seems to get immediate confirmation from the fact that a shared knowledge of what we are talking about is something we clearly do not have. The staggering diversity of work produced under the rubric of “Shakespeare criticism” makes it doubtful “whether ‘Shakespeare’ has much more than a nominal significance.” I wrote this in 2000, reviewing “The Year’s Contributions to Shakespeare Studies” (p. 312); but however good it may have felt to get these words off my chest, I wasn’t saying anything readers didn’t already know. Shakespeareans have long recognized that their subject is made up out of—or filled up with—critical practices, the irresolvable differences of which preclude any strict intellectual coherence and prevent any effective consensus. The question is, for how long have we known this? Has there ever been a time when Shakespeare and literary studies have not been required to accommodate an unmanageable variety of practices? “You can never draw the line between aesthetic criticism and moral and social criticism; you cannot draw a line between criticism and metaphysics; you start with literary criticism, and however rigorous an aesthete you may be, you are over the frontier into something else sooner or later.” This is how the situation looked for T. S. Eliot in 1928 (Dryden, p. xxiii), and it looked pretty much the same, a spacious territory with porous borders, as early as its conventionally designated point of origin among the Romantics. For Hazlitt, the imagination was not a specialized poetic faculty but the motor of all human desire and behavior, with the result that literary studies was bound to be more of an eclectic bricolage than a strictly constructed method. The Romantics did not speak with one voice, and Coleridge was more strongly inclined than Hazlitt to define literary study as a critical practice distinct from all others. But the convergences among the Romantics outweigh the divergences (I’ll be developing this claim in Part Three), and the point remains that the practitioners of literary study were from the beginning too inclusive in their interests to allow for any substantial agreement about “the object of study.” The absence of cognitive consensus, then, is not a recent aberration but the variable constant from which Shakespeareans have always worked—the default framework, the humanities equivalent to “normal
DISCIPLINE AND DESIRE 17 science."(Thomas Kuhn,in fact,distinguishes between the productive conditions for science,which when it "hesitates to forget its founders is lost"[p.138],and for humanities disciplines,which proceed not by jettisoning outmoded paradigms but accumulating them in contentious proliferation.)But then if fundamental disagreement has always been with us,it cannot be responsible for a problem that has become gener- ally evident only in conjunction with the"historical turn"of thirty or so years ago.A radical dissensus might even be taken for a sign of disci- plinary health.According to G.Thomas Tanselle,reviewing the claims of“some recent editors'”that“the field is at present in a state of crisis,” the fact"that different people hold different opinions about basic issues is not a sign of crisis;it points to the perennial situation in any challeng- ing and lively field"("Historicism,"p.153).A foolish consistency,you can say,is the hobgoblin of little disciplines,and when the discipline is Shakespeare studies,a smart inconsistency might seem not only good for business but appropriate to the subject.If Shakespearean drama is a gallimaufry or mingle-mangle-text and performance,comedy and tragedy,main and subplot,canting and inkhorn terms,religious ritual and commercial entertainment,high and low culture,etc.-a Shakespeare studies in agreement about its object of study might seem to have abandoned any claim to interpretive authority. But the fact that we hold different opinions about basic issues is no more a cause for celebration than it is for grief.It is just the field on which we are playing,not the game being played,still less evidence that the game is being played badly or well.If we seem to be especially sensitive at present to the disadvantages of disagreement,this is more the symptom of a problem than its cause.In order to identify whatever it is that inhibits Shakespeare studies these days,we need to get beyond the idea of cognitive consensus as the be-all and end-all of disciplinary vitality,and here A.C.Bradley can help. At the beginning of"Poetry for Poetry's Sake,"Bradley declares his intention "to consider poetry in its essence,"and thus not to dismiss “metrical form”as“mere accident.”Essence--vs.-accident is a standard topos in Platonic and Scholastic traditions,and given Bradley's philo- sophical training,we seem to be on track for a more or less analytically rigorous discourse.But then the argument abruptly abjures precise lan- guage and veers in a totally different direction: without here aiming at accuracy,we may say that an actual poem is the succession of experiences-sounds,images,thoughts,emo- tions-through which we pass when we are reading as poetically
Discipline and Desire 17 science.” (Thomas Kuhn, in fact, distinguishes between the productive conditions for science, which when it “hesitates to forget its founders is lost” [p. 138], and for humanities disciplines, which proceed not by jettisoning outmoded paradigms but accumulating them in contentious proliferation.) But then if fundamental disagreement has always been with us, it cannot be responsible for a problem that has become generally evident only in conjunction with the “historical turn” of thirty or so years ago. A radical dissensus might even be taken for a sign of disciplinary health. According to G. Thomas Tanselle, reviewing the claims of “some recent editors” that “the field is at present in a state of crisis,” the fact “that different people hold different opinions about basic issues is not a sign of crisis; it points to the perennial situation in any challenging and lively field” (“Historicism,” p. 153). A foolish consistency, you can say, is the hobgoblin of little disciplines, and when the discipline is Shakespeare studies, a smart inconsistency might seem not only good for business but appropriate to the subject. If Shakespearean drama is a gallimaufry or mingle-mangle—text and performance, comedy and tragedy, main and subplot, canting and inkhorn terms, religious ritual and commercial entertainment, high and low culture, etc.—a Shakespeare studies in agreement about its object of study might seem to have abandoned any claim to interpretive authority. But the fact that we hold different opinions about basic issues is no more a cause for celebration than it is for grief. It is just the field on which we are playing, not the game being played, still less evidence that the game is being played badly or well. If we seem to be especially sensitive at present to the disadvantages of disagreement, this is more the symptom of a problem than its cause. In order to identify whatever it is that inhibits Shakespeare studies these days, we need to get beyond the idea of cognitive consensus as the be-all and end-all of disciplinary vitality, and here A. C. Bradley can help. At the beginning of “Poetry for Poetry’s Sake,” Bradley declares his intention “to consider poetry in its essence,” and thus not to dismiss “metrical form” as “mere accident.” Essence-vs.-accident is a standard topos in Platonic and Scholastic traditions, and given Bradley’s philosophical training, we seem to be on track for a more or less analytically rigorous discourse. But then the argument abruptly abjures precise language and veers in a totally different direction: without here aiming at accuracy, we may say that an actual poem is the succession of experiences—sounds, images, thoughts, emotions—through which we pass when we are reading as poetically
18 Discipline and Desire as we can.Of course this imaginative experience-if I may use the phrase for brevity-differs with every reader and every time of reading:a poem exists in innumerable degrees.But that insur- mountable fact lies in the nature of things and does not concern us now.(p.4) All the ontological-sounding claims now hang on to nothing. Poems are described not as objects but as subjective experiences,and the description goes round in a circle:poems are what happens to us when we read poetically,and reading poetically is what we do when we read poems.Moreover,these tail-chasing experiences turn out to be almost infinitely variable,corresponding to the "innumerable"read- ers and times of reading by whom and during which a given poem is engaged.In this context,what I have called "a given poem"may sound like a meaningless phrase,but Bradley would concede the point. His intention,he declares,is not "to give a definition of poetry.To define poetry as something that goes on in us when we read poetically would be absurd indeed."His"object,"rather,is to recall for his readers the distinction between“poetical reading”on the one hand and“such experience as is evoked in us when we read[,]let us say,a newspaper article"on the other(p.28). A long history of philosophical reflection-not to say roiling con- tention-is concealed under the placid tone of "Poetry for Poetry's Sake."In diverting our attention from a particular kind of text(poetry, literature)to a particular way of engaging with texts(reading poeti- cally),Bradley works out of what John Guillory describes as"the cen- tral problem of Kantian aesthetics,"the "attempt to give the grounds or conditions for judgments of taste in the constitution of a perceiving subject...rather than in the properties of an aesthetic object"(Cultural Capital,pp.274-5).As Jonathan Loesberg puts it,Kant's"third critique analyzes and justifies a form of judgment not a set of objects classed as art"(A Return,p.74).Furthermore,when Bradley adds that"aesthetic apprehension'”is not limited to“a work of art'”but available equally whether“the object'”of its regard“belongs to 'Nature'or to 'Man'” (p.29),he is again working(consciously or not)out of Kant,for whom aesthetic response was more likely to be produced from engaging with natural phenomena(a sunset is a text that can be read poetically,bird- song can be heard on a register of purely disinterested delight)than with manmade objects,where a consciousness of purpose is bound to compromise the preferred kind of experience.The relevant distinction here is with Hegel,whose Lectures on Art,"in overturning the priorities
18 Discipline and Desire as we can. Of course this imaginative experience—if I may use the phrase for brevity—differs with every reader and every time of reading: a poem exists in innumerable degrees. But that insurmountable fact lies in the nature of things and does not concern us now. (p. 4) All the ontological-sounding claims now hang on to nothing. Poems are described not as objects but as subjective experiences, and the description goes round in a circle: poems are what happens to us when we read poetically, and reading poetically is what we do when we read poems. Moreover, these tail-chasing experiences turn out to be almost infinitely variable, corresponding to the “innumerable” readers and times of reading by whom and during which a given poem is engaged. In this context, what I have called “a given poem” may sound like a meaningless phrase, but Bradley would concede the point. His intention, he declares, is not “to give a definition of poetry. To define poetry as something that goes on in us when we read poetically would be absurd indeed.” His “object,” rather, is to recall for his readers the distinction between “poetical reading” on the one hand and “such experience as is evoked in us when we read[,] let us say, a newspaper article” on the other (p. 28). A long history of philosophical reflection—not to say roiling contention—is concealed under the placid tone of “Poetry for Poetry’s Sake.” In diverting our attention from a particular kind of text (poetry, literature) to a particular way of engaging with texts (reading poetically), Bradley works out of what John Guillory describes as “the central problem of Kantian aesthetics,” the “attempt to give the grounds or conditions for judgments of taste in the constitution of a perceiving subject . . . rather than in the properties of an aesthetic object” (Cultural Capital, pp. 274–5). As Jonathan Loesberg puts it, Kant’s “third critique analyzes and justifies a form of judgment not a set of objects classed as art” (A Return, p. 74). Furthermore, when Bradley adds that “aesthetic apprehension” is not limited to “a work of art” but available equally whether “the object” of its regard “belongs to ‘Nature’ or to ‘Man’ ” (p. 29), he is again working (consciously or not) out of Kant, for whom aesthetic response was more likely to be produced from engaging with natural phenomena (a sunset is a text that can be read poetically, birdsong can be heard on a register of purely disinterested delight) than with manmade objects, where a consciousness of purpose is bound to compromise the preferred kind of experience. The relevant distinction here is with Hegel, whose Lectures on Art, “in overturning the priorities
DISCIPLINE AND DESIRE 19 of Kant"and emphasizing "the artistic beautiful against the natural beautiful"(Uhlig,p.36),sought to transfer the main focus of aesthetic analysis from an interpretive engagement to the properties of a human artifact. Bradley cannot be unaware of the complex philosophical tradi- tions out of which he is making his particular-and,for a self-declared Hegelian,peculiar-choices;but they do not seem to matter.Most of his audience would have been unfamiliar with the details of Kant's Kritik of Judgment or Hegel's Lectures on Art;but for Bradley,the "truths thus suggested"by the distinctions between reading poetically and reading journalistically ("say,a newspaper article")are ones he can "suppose my readers to know'”already--“so obvious'”that“a bare reminder of them would be enough"(p.28).Bradley's program assumes consensus as fully as does Guy and Small's"discipline of knowledge,"but it is consensus of a different kind.Definitive precision about the ontologi- cal status of poetic language,detailed understanding of the phenom- enological processes involved in reading poetically-all this(to recall the end of the paragraph I quoted earlier)"does not concern us here." The consensus for reading poetically is rather,Bradley declares,based on "these things.First this experience is an end in itself,is worth hav- ing on its own account,has an intrinsic value.Next,its poetic value is this intrinsic worth alone"(p.4).Intrinsic value;reading poetically is a good thing.The“truths'”that we may be“supposed..to know”turm out to be values that we can be expected to share;they are centered not in the conclusions of the reason but in the convictions of the will. Reading poetically is something we want to do-a discipline,first and foremost,of desire. The distinction I am making here,between reason and will or knowl- edge and desire,has a venerable pedigree.It was already traditional in 1644,when Milton's Of Education argued,unlike Bradley,for the pri- macy of knowledge:"The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright,and out of that knowledge to love him"(pp.366-7).It was a contentious issue among thirteenth-century theologians:they divided their subject between the Franciscans,represented by Bonaventure,whose "affective volunta- rism"emphasized "the role of will and love,more than of intellect and knowledge,"and the Dominicans,represented by Aquinas,whose"trust in reason"dictated that"the intellect leads in theology,not the will or the heart"(New Catholic Encyclopedia,pp.906-7).In the Sphere of the Sun,Paradiso XI and XII,St.Francis and St.Dominic are represented in relation to the angelic orders associated with their specific beliefs:
Discipline and Desire 19 of Kant” and emphasizing “the artistic beautiful against the natural of Kant” and emphasizing “the artistic beautiful against the natural beautiful” (Uhlig, p. 36), sought to transfer the main focus of aesthetic analysis from an interpretive engagement to the properties of a human artifact. Bradley cannot be unaware of the complex philosophical traditions out of which he is making his particular—and, for a self-declared Hegelian, peculiar—choices; but they do not seem to matter. Most of his audience would have been unfamiliar with the details of Kant’s Kritik of Judgment or Hegel’s Lectures on Art; but for Bradley, the “truths thus suggested” by the distinctions between reading poetically and reading journalistically (“say, a newspaper article”) are ones he can “suppose my readers to know” already—“so obvious” that “a bare reminder of them would be enough” (p. 28). Bradley’s program assumes consensus as fully as does Guy and Small’s “discipline of knowledge,” but it is consensus of a different kind. Definitive precision about the ontological status of poetic language, detailed understanding of the phenomenological processes involved in reading poetically—all this (to recall the end of the paragraph I quoted earlier) “does not concern us here.” The consensus for reading poetically is rather, Bradley declares, based on “these things. First this experience is an end in itself, is worth having on its own account, has an intrinsic value. Next, its poetic value is this intrinsic worth alone” (p. 4). Intrinsic value; reading poetically is a good thing. The “truths” that we may be “supposed . . . to know” turn out to be values that we can be expected to share; they are centered not in the conclusions of the reason but in the convictions of the will. Reading poetically is something we want to do—a discipline, first and foremost, of desire. The distinction I am making here, between reason and will or knowledge and desire, has a venerable pedigree. It was already traditional in 1644, when Milton’s Of Education argued, unlike Bradley, for the primacy of knowledge: “The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him” (pp. 366–7). It was a contentious issue among thirteenth-century theologians: they divided their subject between the Franciscans, represented by Bonaventure, whose “affective voluntarism” emphasized “the role of will and love, more than of intellect and knowledge,” and the Dominicans, represented by Aquinas, whose “trust in reason” dictated that “the intellect leads in theology, not the will or the heart” (New Catholic Encyclopedia, pp. 906–7). In the Sphere of the Sun, Paradiso XI and XII, St. Francis and St. Dominic are represented in relation to the angelic orders associated with their specific beliefs:
20 Discipline and Desire "The one was all seraphic in ardor;the other,for wisdom,was on earth a splendor of cherubic light."The distinction is firmly established,then decisively erased."I will speak of one,"Aquinas tells Dante,"because in praising one,whichever be taken,both are spoken of,for their labors were to one same end"(Singleton,p.121).In what follows,St.Francis's life story is put in Aquinas's mouth,St.Dominic's in Bonaventure's,the reversal of affiliation playing out the inconsequentiality of the differ- ence,the whole episode culminating in a dance. That's the way it is in Paradise,but for those of us who have not yet been assumed into the celestial harmony,the "jealousies and disputes which often estranged the orders"remain(Sinclair,p.172).In aligning myself with Bradley and maybe Dante(though where he comes down on this issue is not clear),I do not mean to minimize the importance of intellectual coherence.Guy and Small are right.A clear sense of subject and method along with the ability to theorize critical practice, to explain its underlying principles and provide an"explicit elabora- tion"of"the appropriateness and utility of the explanation"all this is indispensable for academic discourse,and much of chapter 1 will be arguing the case for disciplinary norms as the custodians of clarity and interpretive authority.But disciplinary norms have been developed over time,and the interpretive authority they produce is similarly sub- ject to change.Coherence is what counts as coherence in a particular context,and this context is determined in large part by the felt needs of the historical subjects inhabiting it. From this angle,the ability to theorize a critical practice,while nec- essary,is not sufficient to sustain that practice;theoretical explanation cannot ground critical activity without itself being grounded in a con- viction of the value of the activity explained.The conviction of value is crucial.Despite the cheery aphorism that even a job not worth doing is worth doing well,it is hard keep up a performance without believing in it.If we take care of will,reason will take care of itself.Whatever the malaise,maybe even crisis in Shakespeare studies,it originates in the realm of desire
20 Discipline and Desire “The one was all seraphic in ardor; the other, for wisdom, was on earth a splendor of cherubic light.” The distinction is firmly established, then decisively erased. “I will speak of one,” Aquinas tells Dante, “because in praising one, whichever be taken, both are spoken of, for their labors were to one same end” (Singleton, p. 121). In what follows, St. Francis’s life story is put in Aquinas’s mouth, St. Dominic’s in Bonaventure’s, the reversal of affiliation playing out the inconsequentiality of the difference, the whole episode culminating in a dance. That’s the way it is in Paradise, but for those of us who have not yet been assumed into the celestial harmony, the “jealousies and disputes which often estranged the orders” remain (Sinclair, p. 172). In aligning myself with Bradley and maybe Dante (though where he comes down on this issue is not clear), I do not mean to minimize the importance of intellectual coherence. Guy and Small are right. A clear sense of subject and method along with the ability to theorize critical practice, to explain its underlying principles and provide an “explicit elaboration” of “the appropriateness and utility of the explanation”—all this is indispensable for academic discourse, and much of chapter 1 will be arguing the case for disciplinary norms as the custodians of clarity and interpretive authority. But disciplinary norms have been developed over time, and the interpretive authority they produce is similarly subject to change. Coherence is what counts as coherence in a particular context, and this context is determined in large part by the felt needs of the historical subjects inhabiting it. From this angle, the ability to theorize a critical practice, while necessary, is not sufficient to sustain that practice; theoretical explanation cannot ground critical activity without itself being grounded in a conviction of the value of the activity explained. The conviction of value is crucial. Despite the cheery aphorism that even a job not worth doing is worth doing well, it is hard keep up a performance without believing in it. If we take care of will, reason will take care of itself. Whatever the malaise, maybe even crisis in Shakespeare studies, it originates in the realm of desire