1

MODERNISM
AND FORMALISM

ll Is u p p r o p n u t e to begin Contemporary U l e r a r y Crilie/sm wUli ossays wrilleii

Ijusimilag ol the IwonUeth conlury rsprosenling ths "niudurnlst"
movomuiil m the a r t j . Al the boglnning ul tH modem eta wriiefs uad urlisis
n l i l n l r | U U i i If Uf . U f o p e a n d ' A m e r i c a w e r s conceiving of Uiemselvos and ihnlr
inakolinH w'^h" P 'D ending a n d a new beginning, Ezra P o u n d ' s call to
make It n u w became the rallying cry ol m a n y In the arti a j they sought buth
tu recovor tiiu putt a n d to break with it. T h i i book boglni with an essay of one of
Pound , " s i u d e n u . " T. S. Eliot. In h i . f a m o u s essay. ' T r a d i t i o n and ill^»
liidlyidual Tulgnl." Eliot virtually begins by asserUng that "criticism Is as
Inov tubie as breathing w d that we s h o u l d be n o n e the worse for articulatlr.g
what passes In o u r m l a d * w h e n w e tead a book a n d feel a n emotion about U."
a
wcuin U H l c a p ' V 1 r M t h 8 d o u b l 9 " w e of formalism presented In this
ection. tliB exploration of,UnguisUc a n d literary form as # way of creatlna iha
f o r m In " o b j o c " | ^ 9 " , e " 8 8 l h a ' H ' w a t u r s p t w e n U a n d i h e exploration of that
form to e r m i n e the subjective " e f f e c U " »ucb literary form* give rise to. In the
next feci ion w a will e x a m i n e thli t o m e d i c h o t o m y In terms of confllcUns
Z ' s Z u!! 3 rh9t r 0
? " ' t h 9 ' l u d y Q , f o n n a i l l o s u l ' t l c figures a n d of the
persuas ve p o w e r of language. But h e r e we w a n t to offer examples of the

MODERNISM •

Modernlsin us a literary movement In the Anglo-American world dates from

£vemenr::iT?„TufeED|£1\?tS: sJa;d^
r Pfe a ted b y lh8
Joy . Ello.' r!, ? f ? . V publications of. Jama!

To tmo " e r a t ; U ' " " T " P O l n U 0 U t S e c t i o n V l " S ronte1npo;a!

P y aootlief vw>Io
Kn,i , n ol m o d e r n i s m . In any case the
of Modernist fervor w a » , u r e l y Virginia W o o U ' , assurance tamTthat S o !
hunm.f^r?)!?! t V u m J a a c h a r a c l e r c h a n g e d . " Woolf explained that "all
an,I wi ' l a V B «hUted—those b e t w e e n masters a n d servants h u s b a n d s
the suina M P W B Uc hl ,t , 61 0 9 1 ^0 lMdl t e n i A n d w h e n h u m a n relations change tliere is at
lhu 1U,ns t l m u
" " « ' 8 l o a . c o n d u c t , politics, and literature." A decade

15
. n
MODERNISM ANU KOKMAUSM
earlier D. H, Lawrence had describeu a situiUrly radical rucoiicuiJtiun o( liuiimii
character in a leller-to his edilor describing lha heroine o( T h s Ruinbow: "1
don't-so m u c h care about what the w o m a n /eels—In the ordinary usose of the
word. That presumes an ego to (eel with. I only care about whut the w o m a n is
, . . as a p h e n o m e n o n (or as representing some greateri Inhuinon wlU)i Instead
o( what she (eels according to the h u m a n conception." Like W o o l l — a n d like
Eliot in the essay included h e r e — L a w r e n c e Is presenting an antlromantlc,
antiexprcssionist conception of h u m a n character In literature—u conception of
the subject which, as Eliot says, is ••impursonal" and a conception of lltorutura
as sometliiiii! oilier lhan.,"oxprussivu." it is one that lorusei-JII-;lie /urins of
literature and experience rather than on the narrowest seiwu ol their "per-
sonal," " h u m a n " significance.
Such an " i m p e r s o n a l " and "forinul" conception of litetalure led many of
the Modernists—though n o f a l l : Joyce and A u d e n ore notable axcuptlons—to
approve of authoritarian politics to one degree or another. P o u n d , for Instance,
thought Italian fascism an Important social movement; Eliot proclaimed
himself a royalist aiid conservative and, in some of his ijubllshed writings,
made ethnic (particularly anti-Semitic) remarks he later'publicly rejitettedi
Yeats flirted with a right-wing authoritarian Irish party. It has b e e n argued that
the kind of "Impersonality" that formalism s u ^ e s t s might l e a d — o r at least bo
coi Jucive—to a disregard for h u m a n rights of one kind or unother. Some
critics. In fact (such as Frar\k Lentricchia in A/ler the Nekv CrltJcisrn), h a v e ,
suggested that certain p r o p o n e n t s of slrucluralUl and poststructutallsl liierery .
criticism share some" of these attitudes ^vUh their modernist forbears, It is not
clear exactly h o w much structuralism and formalism shura as lululljctual
movements—L6vl-Strauss publlslted an Important essay dlstUiguUhlng struc-
turalism and formalism In 1960 entitled "Structure and F o r m " — a n d even If 11
could be s h o w n tiiat both are species of "formulism," It Is clearly not the r.use
that structuralism and poststructurclism attract people with h o m o g e n o u s
political views. But recent evidence that Paul da M a n — w h o s e work i-.'osenls
one of the most rigorous and " ( o r m a l " articulations of poststructura ism
voiced pro-Nazi sentiments in article? and book reviews In Celglum during
World War li adds support to the cor.:ehlion that there is a correlation between
tlie " f o r m a l " sensn of esthetic experience and devaluation of the lies b e t w e e n
art and social responsibility.
Another aspect of m o d e r n i s m that could lead to such polilicj Is tl 5 sense
ol i m p e n d i n g e n d — t h e sense of e n o r m o u s radical changes In S( cii'ty—that
m a n y felt In the early p u t of tlie century. It is here. In (ucl, ^hat art and politics
seem to come together. The claims of the essays In this section are generally not
so dramatic as Woolf's or Lawrence's sense of a modern cpocalypso—or as
dramatic as Yeats's in 1922 w h e n he wrote In his Autoblogmphy: "After us the
Savage G o d " — y e t such an apocalyptic sense of the twentieth century as a n e w
beginning accurately reflects the Idea of n e w beginning that r u n s t . u o u g h most
Modernist criticism. The n e w n e s s consists in what Frank Kermode culls an
" o p e n breach with the past," ""o reaction against the crushing weight of an
artistic past which cannot be surveyed any longer by any one person. Like
P o u n d in the ambiguity of " m a k e U n e w , " Kormode describes a double vision
of the twentieth century as e m p o w e r e d to step free of tue past and simulta-
neously as suffering in its failure to encompass or even to survey that
p a s t — b o t h of which visions suggest, os WooU says, some shift In what .t meuns
to be h u m a n . From this shift, as the essays by Eliot and Shklovsky In this
MOUEIWISM AND FORMALISM
section testify, ccrnys the anxiety e m b e u J e d throughout modernism. If " m o d -
ernism strongly Implies some sort of historical discontinuity , , , a liberation
from Inherited Dtitlerns," as Richard EJlmann a n d Charles Feldelson claim
1
^ n ^ ' l a n o o u s l y m e a n s " d e p r i v a t i o n a n d d i s i n h e r i t a n c e " — b e i n g set free
a n d also broken o i l f r o m the values o l the past.
N o t w U h s t a n d I n g the rhetoric of loss, apocalypse, and new beginnings (the
rhetoric typical of m o d e r n i s m a n d the 'Commentary about It)—and n o t w l i h -
standlng q u e s t i j u a b l a polUlcs—the Modernists w e r e .involved In a serious
0 II 1 il H ' " " * of literary form and of the posilbllltles for a nuw
eslhotic In the urts generally—If not oxoctly nuw wuys of being h u m a n , tliun ul
luust u n e w puradlgm of prusentutloa for the p r o d u c t s of twentieth-century
cul ure. H e n c e f o r t h , as Irving Babbitt said most forcefully, any r o m a n t i c or
sentimental ^ l e n d e n c es In llteraturs must' be v i e w e d as mere " e m o t i o n a l
naturullsm, u dissolving of real-worid distinctions a n d a glossing over of
Important cultural d e m K c a t l o n i . In place of nlneteenth-century r o n r a n t k
slo p p ln ess, Babbitt said, Is the emergent " m o d e r n s p i r i t . . . the positive a n d
« Ileal spirit, the spirit that refuse,.toNake things o n a u t h o r i i y ' ^ ' a b b i u ev"n
called for a f u r t h e r m o v e m e n t a w a y f r o m s u p p o s e d l y " s o f t " and " u n c r i t i c a l "
r o m a n t i c i s m to t o u g h . " ".critical" m o d e r n i s m , ft shift,' as T. E. H u l m e arguud
n 0 a conl9 n
' , ' P O f a r y version of t h e neoclasslc sensibility a n d Its m o d e s of
Huh .a M f r | ' f n m o d u l a t e d s e n t i m e n t s . In short. Babbitt a n d
f n n e m r 8 e o m P , « l 8 a l "">donraont of r o m a n t i c i s m and for the develop-
' K 6 n t mpdorn, antlromantlc, f o r m a l sensibility,
for Q ! : r i b ! U , y ' " ' " u 5 " l n l h l , . » o c t i o n «hbw, most Immediately calls
f^or a tnovemeii a w a y from the Irtallonallly of w h a t British r o m a n t i c poets
.called /moglnullon. (Wlmsal( a n d Duardsley are most explicitly " a n t l r o m a n t l c "
In these essays. but s u c h on Impulse c a n be seen In Eliot's description of the
f,!r n | I |, a r \?" M l , R a t h e r , thl1
,• m o d e r n i s t s c h o s e f a n c y , Coleridge's term
'Vri '^ i l j l m u n capacity to reason a n d to m a k e demonsUable (In this sense,
but finite ln 0 I that n 0 n , | W t t ^ l n l | n ( d . 1 e n ? o n 8 e x p e r i e n c e s , an endless e n d e a v o -
but finite In that precise forms (distinct Images a n d the like) are used to
DaHirln 1 roads this choice for eplstemologlcal reasons,
lh
? l i o U ®/ 115141 ' " P " 1 0 ' " t c o m e , out of the knowledge b o r o f
reasoned d i s c r i m i n a t i o n , and « rational perspective. T h e y were not tryln* for
dryness a.j^J b a n a l i t y In poeUy, but for U.e " h a r d , d r y " p r L e n t a t l d n K c l s e
Images and a m o d u l a t e d use of language. S u c h Imagery, like Eliot's " o a l r of
ragged c l a w s / Scuttling across the floors of silent s e a , ? a i m ! at f " h a r d '' or
frereBCofai H P r e t B n ' « t i o r t o l ' ' ^ ' O r y Informatfon; It Is " d r y " In being
Imposod on the t e x t . 0 0 P f , , d e W m l n e d tl at
' " u l d be brought to of
J " l l i o " h a r d , d r y " language ol m o d e r n i s m , as an Ideal, does not need
0 Impose e m o t i o n s o a the text because the text provides Its own In the form ol
ts progression that Is, In lU discourse. Eliot call, these ' " u u X r a l emoUons''
and says that they w e generated out of the text lUalf. fly this he m e a n s that In
e ding poetry partlculttf "feelings" ore elicited from the reader by the formal
a P m
^ax
x us O
l i c i v 0eortelallve,"
« u Tan' n o bobjective r 'l ' . T 8 8 " ' 'orT ha8 particular
S9
" n t t 8 B S Image
' l n l u r nsequence
' a r 8 W f a nIn« ' "the
J
' h "n
BOB
hat c o r r e s p o n d s to a h u m a n emotion. It follows that the act of reading d r a w s
orUi all the f e e l i n g s " that combine to make u p a particular "emotion " w h i c h
Z m S ,| i l J H " ! n " 11,9 l 9 x t " 1118 by m e a n , r i t s Z i n
spuclllcully allcliS Uwt emotion. In short, this entire operation, from ths
,16 MOUliRNlSM ANU b'UKMAUSM
deployment of images as an objecdvQ curreluUve through thu ruceived t:(f'!Ct uf
a, "structural emotion," takes place as a "texluul" operation, a poetic experi-
ence that is riot brought to the text as a personal experience but Is generated
precisely out of the text's particular patterning or structure. T h e MoJeriilst
preffirence for fancy, in this way, means valuing the esthetic struclure of a text
as conveyed in imagery—sctuall> produced " l u " the text—over the more
personal resrioiisos that less rigorous reading (or a less " r i g o r o u s " poem) might
produce.
Moderni'^t poetics, then, as a " f o r m a l " explanation of poetry's f u n c t i o n , is
a s c h e m e for art that Tits into the twentieth century's broader pictu.-e of cultural
discontinuity and Irrationality. That is, the rational process wliereL y linages In
poetry call forth "structural e m o t i o n s " In the reader h a p p e n s against the
modern background of lost connections between the cultural past u i d present,
a world that Is made over with each new v o r k of art. For m o d e r n i s m , t'..ere are
no ordained or natural lines of order In the world, no cultural buckdrop that
gives automatic meaning to a text; there is no providential plan according to
which history a n d its outCL.iius ure muaniiiKfully s i t u a t e d . On t h u contrary, the
disinheritance of m o d e r n culture is precisely the- loss of belief In such
traditional schemes as the Great Chain of Being. Pound and l^liot, in particular,
do speak of grand cultural orders ("the mind of Europe," " t r a d i t i o n . " " t h e
past," and so i i). these ar^e always distinctly h u m a n artifacts that must be
teliuagined lor each poet and each culture. Eliot describes.a kind of creative
surrender w h e ' -by the poet's interactions with conventional possibilities may
emerge as poetry—so that, in short, " n e w " culture will exist.
Eliot elaborates this process in 'JTradition and the Individual T a l e n t "
w h e n he argues that " p a s t , " " p r e s e n t , " and " f u t u r e " are not given facts or
simple reaUlios of experience but a f o r m a l arrangement of areas of disturbance
and discontinuity In the midst of which the poet nonstrucls art and culture like
a collage. Similarly, In this period the semiotician Ferdinand de Suussure—
Eliot's contemporary (see Section 111]—proposes that reality Itself is a linguistic
arrangement of "signified" and potential meanings, a rational ond formal
arrangement situated w i t h i n a context o( arbitrariness. 'I'hus, cut off front the
past, disinherited Iroin it, the poet, artist, or even any u j e r of language can
choose to accept the imperutivo and tesponsibillty " t o make it n e w " or else
remain without any operative sense of past or present culture at all. This
Modernist version of poetry suggests a highly rational (almost Augustan)
practice, but its poetic logic is s h o w n to exist In the wasteland of m o d e r n
culture, where the puet tolls lO make (actually create) cultural connection.s that
otherwise would not exist. In other words, poetry Introduces form into a
cultural nux (the m o d e r n world) that by definition cannot be well formed, or
" f i n i s h e d , " because it r e m a i n s In transition.
A call for form, therefore, It a distinctly Modernist gesture w h e r e i n the
Modernists promoted the emergence of a new esthetic to c o m p e n s a t e for the
lost connections with the past that Kermode spoke of, tlie Modernists believing
themselves, as Patricia Tobin has said, to be "living in the temporal belatedness
of a cultural aftermath." They promoted a reconstituted version of ueoclasslc
poetics, with some Important differences. The Modernists believed that
througii new poetic forms they were creating new worlds: w h e r e a s for prior
ages there was only one world, given to humunity by one Cod. In the call for
form tlte Modernists argued for the necessity of a m o d e r n cultural a n d artistic
sensibility adequate to the' felt quality of living In the a f t e r m a t h of post-
enlightenment culture. This Modernist perception of a c o n t e m p o r a r y crU'.s in
MuutiuNiaivi niNU rvjivMAHSM
19
values a n d artlstlo form l.j surely a concern (or the history of ideas, a n d the
Modernist program t o r a n e w u n d e r s t a n d i n g oi poetic a n d literary form has a
direct bea: Ing on Anglo-American a n d Continental criticism.
RUSSIAN FORMALiSM
iri fact, Russian formailsrh, even t h o u g h . It w a s long u n k n o w n In Anuio-
A m e r i c a n criticism, Is Itself a significant part o( the m o v e m e n t of m o d e r n i s m ,
as I s — m o r e cloarly—(he'A j morican , ' N e w Crltlclsro" of the lB3bi a n d I 0 4 0 s
Those m o v e m e n t s look Ihe M o d e r n i s t esthetic a n d eplstemology to heart t n d
a t t e m p t e d to analyze literature not by lU.Identifiable or " n a t u r a l " (or "repre-
sentatlonal") c o n t e n t but consistently by Its f o r m - h o w It Is constructed and
h o w It f u n c t i o n s so as to have m e a n i n g In the first place. T h i s emp h as i s on form
in literary criticism has t.wo general applications: (1) an u n d e r s t a n d i n g of a
text's interior patterning, or h o w It w o r b ; e n d (2) the recognition that foim
murks u work as belonging to a particular g e n r e — a novel, lyric, drama, and so
on. T h u s , fLrinullsra In the broadest sense views literature as. a c o m p l e x system
of forins that may be analyzed In relation to one another at different levels of
generality f r o m the specific* of a poetic Image or line t h r o u g h that poem's
p n r e . F o r m a l i s m , In short, attempts to vlew lUerature not as constituted by its
intrinsic ("natural") meaning, a« an Imitation of reality, but by relational
patterns that are m e a n i n g f u l In a parUcular work and genre.
I , R J 1 !? l a o, , 0 1 r r a 1 a l i " n w a ' t h e work of ' w o groups of critics, the Moscow
U n g u i s t i c Circle, begun In 1915, and O P O Y A Z (Society for the Study of Poetic
J'nn''iUf o" , l i t u r U ' d } n l 9 1 0 , B o t h gJ'oups were dlsaarided In 1930 in response to
official Soviet c o n d e m n a t i o n of their wllllngnuss to depart from the ideological
arid esUietic s t a n d w d j of Soviet socialist realism. T h e i r Influence continued
s^trongly in the work of the Prague Linguistic Circle (founded In U2U}, uf wiiich
R o m a n Jakobson Is perhaps the best-known figure, and In e few key works such
as Vladimir P r o p p ' s Morphology of Ihe Folktale (1928). It Is an oddity uf the.
m o d e r n history of Ideas, however, that after 1930 the Russian formalists had
uln.ust no linpuct on Weitero criticism end theory but resurfaced thirty years
the^iouos ut vun 0
' ' ' l l t e r a r y ^ r u c t u r a l l s m in France and the United States in
Like Eliot and the Modernists In general, the Russian Formalists sought to
I ' I m I U ,V U y ^ n ' o s ' ^ n ' ^ - e e n l u r y romantic altitudes In criticism and to
I "11 r o m a n U c notioiu about poetic Inspiration, genius, or esthetic organi-
cism, Instead, the FormallsU a d o p t e d i deliberately mechanlsUc view of poeUy
wid other literary art as l i e p r o d u c U of cro/l. Considered as f a n c y , p o e t r y a s .
w a i t niay be Irivestlgatod according to i m m e d i a t e l y a n a l y i a b l e literary f u n c -
Uons. -Thus, w h i l e the Formalists believed Utat no particular d e p l o y m e n t of
w o r d s , images, or other language effecU Is Intrinsically literary (there being no
s u c h tiling us llurary language), they s a w diat literature, like other usages of
l ^ g u a g e , c o u l d h a v e . particular / u n c t i o n , could " w o r k " to a c c o m p l i r h
particular e n d s , a n assumpUon s h a r e d wltli K e n n e t h Burke (see Section 11). Yet
they ore. m o r e linguistic rather t h a n "sociological" (as Burke calls his work)'
nriri* 8
oWect of criticism. Linguistic properties then become the
pr m a r y c o n c e r n - l h s t e a d of " I n s p i r a t i o n , " " p o e t i c g e n i u s , " or " p o e t i c or!
gaulcUin — a s a poem's m e a n i n g a n d effect are sought. The Formalists
a t t e m p t e d to m a i n t a i n and extend this view af every step of analysis by
20 MODEKNISM AND TOKWALISM
idenlilyinii formal propurties as e j f v a i v e propurlies llirougli dolailed disscc-
l i o n s of p o e l i c ( a n d n a r r a l i v u ) lucliiiicjue.
This impulse In llieory toward a lilurary formalism cun be seen mosl
cleirly in Viktor ShUovsky's definition of literary "device" aimed at effecting
some end (a concept analogous to Saussure's " f u n c t i o n a l " definition of
linguistic entities). Central to formalism, tor example, Is SliUo.'sky's argument
against the esthetic notion of "art as thinking in images" and his promotioL,
instead, of the Importance of literary (and nonimaglstlc) devices, A concentra-
tion on images, Shklovsky maintained, leads one to view a poem as liavlng
actual "content," and this assumption inhibits any truly formal or relational
analysis. What may appear,as " c o n t e n t " needs to bo considered us "device," or
any operation in language that promotes "defumiliarlzatlun." That is, since
language Is a medium of comniunication before It Is used In oxl, its expressions
and conventions Inevitably will bo overly familiar to the reader and too feeble
to have a fresh or significant impact in a poem. To bo made nev/ and poetically
useful, such language must be "dofamiliari-ied" and " m a d e strange" through
linguistic displacement, which means deploying language In an unusual
context or effecting its presentation in a novel way. Rliyme sciiomos {or lack of
rhyme), chiasmus (rhetorical balance and reversal), catacfuesis (the straining of
a word or figure beyond Us usual meaning), conceits, mixed metaphors, and so
on—all these devices for producing particular effects In litoruturo can be used
to defamiliariie language and to awaken readers to Uio Inlricucy and texture of
verbal slructure. Such defamlliarization Is, therofore, the manner In which
pijetry functions to rejuvenate and revivify language. All this U quite different
from romantic criticism's view of what fdippens In a poem at the expressivu
channel for transcendent (or divine) feelings or poetic (or personal) genius,
T H E N E W CRITICIS.M
The principal American version of formalism, the New Criticism, shares sonte
gem al precepts with Russian Formalism, but ihore Is historically oi.ly a
negligible Influence of one o n . t h e othe/', (Ken6 Weliek, for example, wtfs
associated with both schools but did little to "Introduce" Russian Formalist
Ideas Into American criticism.) A single orthodoxy for iho New Ctlllclsn as a '
broad movement does not exist, but we can Isolate several of the key tenets
articulated by major Anglo-American critics from the lute Ii-iOs"through the
1950s, the period of the New Criticism's active development. In particular, liko
Russian Formalism, the New Criticism tried to dhpluco content In literary
analysis and, therein, to treat a work's form in a manner analogaus to unnlrlcal
research. Also like Rus.'tan Formalism', the New Criticism tried to organue the
larger, generic forms of literature In accord with the Inner ordering of works as
revealed In specific analyses or "close readings."
These general similarities point up the Modernist and Formalist leanings
of both movements, but the New Criticism departed from Russian Formalism on
the key Issue of the /unction of forms, (It Is true, though, that there are moments
In New Criticism—as when Cleanth Brooks asserts In "The Liinguage of
Paradox" that Donne's effect "is to cleanse ar.d revivify metaphor' — hat are
close to Shklovsky's definition of "dofamiliarization.") R a t h g r than conceUe of
ihe formal properties of literature as a means of achieving particular effects, the
New Critics conceived literature to be a self-sustaining "artifact," a "spatial
form" in )oseph Frank's term, and form as a self-containod "autonomous"
MODi;i<NlSM AND K O l l M A U S M 21
oiitity, wiiat Crooks meant by a "well-wrought urn." Perhaps mosl Important
was llie Now Critical reliance on "Imogery." es a concept wlUi which lo define
form, Drawing hoavlly on Uia work of the Modernist crillcj, New Critics liko
Crooks made Uief literary Image the primary mi.tedal or constiluent of form
Itself. A New-Critical "cloia reading" of John D o n n s ' j poem "The Canonl-
gallon," for Instance, Involves a preliminary Identmcallon ol key Images In a
recurring pattern ol opposition, or as Brooki »ay», "lenslon," Only once this
pattern of Imagery Is established do Ihe New Critics attend to any i n l e r p r e l f v j
ccnslderutlons of form. Thus, while the Russlari FormallsU successfully
avoluod any focus on literary content, iho New Critics posited paradox and
Iro'.iy (which themselves could ba seen i particular e / f e c U of literature) as
controlling figuus and, In effect, turned them Into content. As B r o o b says In
his discussion of " T h e Canonization" In this section, paxadox and Irony
• actually reflect the structurs of the Imagination lUelf, His reasoning, based on
Kantian eslhotlcs, Is simply that since pootry Is produced by the Imagination, It
must rufluc' Ihe Imagination's own structure. That slructure, or "form," Is
opposition, as seen rhetorically In the Qguros ol paradox and Irony, These
figures, then, although Uiey ore Intended to be poeUy's form, virtually become
Its contonl, In tliat tliey are the ultlmale referents for all the Indications (largely
Imuglsiic) of meaning, I'rom tills standpoint, all poems are about, or "contain,"
tlioso patterns.
In this Is the largest difference between the "substantial" formalism of the
New Criticism and the " f u n c t i o n a l " formalism of Russian Formalism, Whereas
ihe Russian Fo.-mallsts attempted merely to lay bare the operation of local
uovlces, rejecting «ny authoritative and finui Interpretation of a work, the New
Critics believed that a work con be reod objectively and accurately In light of Its
actual structure or form. A work can, thus, have a single, or "correct,"
Intorprelallon. W, K. Wlmsctt ond Moiuoe C. Deardsley In "The Intentional
Fallacy, 1 for example, stipulate the manner of reading a work the "right" way.
Thoy explain the hitiirfetpnce and Inaccuracies possible wlwn authorial.
Intentions become a consldorallon in close reading—the " w r o n g " way. In "The
Affective Fallacy," furlhcr, they thovy how at the other extreme a reader's
undisciplined "affective" rosponses to a text—the very e//ecU that Shklovsky
attempts lo account for—may distort the correct a p p r e h e n s i o n and liiterpreta-
tlon of Images, So, whereas the Formalists concentrated on form as a plutallly
of literary devices and on luterpretatlon as an activity (see Fish, Barthes, Culler,
BukJitln, and Felinan (or other verilons of this "active" or "performative"
corcoptlou of understanding throughout this book), the New Critics reUleved
from romanticism the concept of esthetic wholeness and unity, as well as a
unified or single intsrpretation of a work. They argued that a work, properly
read, will always be unified by a set of preconceived tensions, as expressed In
paradox and Irony, In short, the New Q l t l c i assumed total coherence In a work;
"did '^Q l S S ' a n C ' * 8 8 'Ignlficant portion of contemporary criticism)
Thesy, differences represent two main lines of formalist development In the
twentieth century and two aspects of contemporary literary a l t l c l s m that
will appear In this book. The Russian Formalists examined literary form as an
Important constituent of a work's operation but saw, it as enmeshed In an
ongoing process. This effort,"more.fully reallied, became structuralism and
some versions of poslstructurallsm. T h e New Critics, drawing heavily from the
Mouornlsls' Idea; about Imagery, created.a formalism that viewed literary forn,
US arrustoblo, wiUi a c o n U o t thai may bo exaininyd more or lest direcily. ThU
22
M O U f l W I S M ANU h'UKMALliM MUUl.KNIiiM ANU i'OKMALISM
23

lenduiicy, as we will see intorined Ihe psycliological ruadiiiijs of Freudiuii ego

psychology, Northrop Frye's urclietypal criticism In the lata ItifOs, and tliu Jefferson, Ami, "Russian Formalism," in Modern Literary theory, Ann Jefferson
" p l u r a l i s m " of ths 1960s (representod In this collection In M. H. Abrams's and David Roboy. ed». (Totowa. N.J,! B a r u e j a n d Noble, 1882), 1 6 - 3 7
argument with deconstruction in Suction VIII). i n
"""" ~
- . The P o u n d E i a (Derkeley: U n l v e n l t y ol CalKornla Press, 1971),
RELATED TEXTS IN "y" ?; n f a f n k : , ?? < ! J o l l f Hollander, e d j . . M o d e r n British Uterature (New
CONTEMPOHARY LITEllAilY ClUTICISM York: Oxford Univerilty Press, 1973},. l[NBW

Luiigbautn. Robert. Tha MoWen. Spfril; Essays on t h e ContlnuKy of N i n e t e e n t h -

Roland Barthes, " T h e Slrucluralisi Activity" a n d Twanlleth-Cflnlury U l e r e t u r s (London: C h a t t o a n d W i n d u j , 1 9 7 0 I ,
B a k h l i n / V o l o S i n o V j " D i s c o u r s e i n L i f e a n d D i s c o u r s e in A r t " 8 0
N o r t h r o p Frye, " F u n c t i o n of C r i t i c i s m at t h e P r e s e n t T i m e " Essav^fL^lncQln. m e v , d ' " , RPfBH,
t s s a ^ J (Lincoln. nU n!l y' e"w l t y o f Nebraska
uslIan
F o m o l l s t Criticism: F o u r
1885). • •
M. H. A b r a r a s , " T h e O e c o n s t r u c t i v e A n a o i " l , 9 n
p^,^#i8^5f' Celticism (Chicago.- University of Chicago

V
FURTHER READING ^ I V o D ' t ^ f l n s a n d Form: R e f i e c t l o n j ol a Work by Vladimir
Propp, t i a n j . M o n l q u a Layton, rev. by A n a t o l y U b e r m a n . In Vladimir
Babbitt, Irving, flousseou a n d Homaiilicism lUoston and New York: Hounl' 'on soTa P pre^t fl m " } " ' < " y o / F o ' W o r a ( M l n , ^ o a P o l U ; University of Mlnne-
Mifflin, 1919).
Matejka, LadlslBv, a n d Kryslyna Pomorska, R e a d l n g t in Russian Poetics'
DaWitin, Mikhail, Problems 0/ Dostoevsky's Poetics, trars, Cwyl Emerson Formalist a n d S.vucturallsl Vlekvi (Cambridge: M I T Press, 1971)
(Minneapolis; University of Minnesota Press, 1984), Miller, J Hlllls P o e t , o / H e a l i t y (Cambridge: H a r v a r d University Press, 1965).
Bann, Stephen, and John E. Bowh, eds., Hussion Formalism (Edinburgh;
Scottish Academic Press, 1973). Ulm ' C ! ; J M 9 I f r 0 ' f ' ? U ' p t U r < " P ^ h n c M o n u m e n t , a n d Modern Poets
{imac-M Cornell U o l v e « i t) y P m i , 1985).
Bennett, Tony, Formolism e n d Marxism (London; M e t h u e n , 1978). Ortega X Gassot, Josii, The D e h u m a n i z a t i o n of Art e n d O t h e r Writings of Art
Berman, Marshall, A l l T h a t Is S o l i d Melts into Air: The E^perie.ice of a n d Culture (1948); r e p r i n t Garden City, N , ? . : D o u b l e d a y . 1958.
Modernity (New York; Simon & Schuster, 1982). P o v n d , E u a . T h e A B C 0/Reading (New Haven: Yale University P r e » , 19341.
Bradbury, Malcolm, and James McFurlann, Modunu'sm; 1 8 9 0 - 1 9 3 0 (Now York; Ransom, J o h n Crowe, The N e w Criticism (Now York: N e w Directions, 1941)'
Penguin, 197(J).
Reud, Hurbort, Icon a n d Idoo (Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 1956).
Brooks, Cleanth, "My Credo; Formalist Critics," in Kenyon fiovlew, 1 1 ( 1 9 5 1 )
72-81. c ar s, I. A., P r a c t i c a l Criticism (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1929).
• — , Principles 0/Ulerary Crillel$m.(New YorJ;: H a r c o u r t . Brace, 1925)
——, The PuBt s Fancy," in New /Republic, 85 (November 13, 1935), 2 0 - 2 7 .
and Robert Penn Warren, eds., L/n'derslunding Poetry (New York' Holt
1938).
S p e a
Conroy, Mark, Modernism a n d Aulhorily: Slrolegles 0/ Lugitimution in „ r f s ' K ' ' O l o n y s u s a n d Ihe City; M o d e r n i s m in Twenlielh-Ceniury
Poetry (New York; Oxford UnWerslty Press, 1 9 7 0 ) , '
Flaubert a n d Conrad (Baltimore; Johns Hopkins University Press, 19i;5).
SPSI Ur
Crane, R, S., el al., eds., CWllcs a n d Crllicisin; Ancient a n d Modern (Chicago; l pr S ess 1 ! l 19 n 03'), h 9 S l r U W i ' 8 0/lh9 Mod
''m l0erke,e
y ! University of Califor-
University of Chicago Press, 1357),
StUl
Eliol, T. S., The Sacred Wood (London: M e t h u e n , 1920). 'pre , S S', U t 1984). U J S I a n FCf
",oliS"l; A Msl0
P 0 » l i " lHhaca; Cornell University
Ellmann, Richard, and Charles Feldelson, jr., T/ie M o d e r n Tradition; (back-
Sy
grounds of M o d e r n Literature (New York; Oxford University Press, 1065). '7ork;ADJl^l[;T^99sa>'',ll'0'iS, MOV0menl Uleralu
« 11899); reprint New
E m p s o n , W i l l i a m , S e v e n T y p e s of A / i i b i g u i l y ( N e w Y o r k ; N e w D i r o c l l o n s
19^7].
Eriich, Victor, Russian F o r m a l i s m : History a n d Doctrine, 3rd ed. (New Haven;
Yale University Press, 1981). T1 d a l
'' Y Q ;k W K l uop I ( 1 " i g f ? ) F 0 r 0 8 S Modern Dr
' " s h ^ l e r o t u r e : 1385-1 356 (New
Frank, Joseph, The Widening Gyre: Crisis a n d Muslery in Modern Literature
(New Brunswick, N,J.; Rutgers University Press, 1903). VVt>11
flf 1 ;c«ri549" d Austlu W6fren
' T
',eo'>'U"irature (Nevv Yofk: Harcour
'. '
Howe, Irving, ed., Lilerary Modernism (New York; Fawcett, 1U07).
Hulme, T. E., S p e c u l a t i o n s ( L o n d o r ; Routledgo, 1924). WimsaU. W, K.. Jr., " T h e Chicago Critics," In C o m p a r o t i v e Ulerulure, 5 (1953),
16 VIKTOR S H K L O V S K Y
Viktor Shklovsky Art as t e c h n i q u e
1893-1984 "Art is thinking In Images." This maxim,
vhich c v e a high school «mdent5 parrot. Is
nevertheless tlie starting point for the erudite
philologist who Is beginning lo put together
Viktor Bofisovich ShVJovsky wis one of ihc leaders of ilic Russian Fon ulisis, a group some kind of systematic literary theory. The
of Uicraii (offidaUy called OPOYAZ, Society for the Study of Poctic Languages) tli-i idea, originated in part by Potebnya, has
thrived in Moscow from 1916 ur.til 1930. Shldovslcy, Boris Eichcnbaum, Yaiy Tynya- spread. "Without Imagery there is no art, and
nov, and other Formalists sought to put literary theory on a par with the natural in particular no poetry," Potebnya writea.1
sdcnccs through ilgorous consistency in their systematic elaboration of pri-nir' and And elsewhere, "Poetr/, as well is prose, is
defensible tenets about literature. Al their most expansive they offered a theory of fust and foremost a spcci.il way of thinking
literary function and criucal interpmation, as well as a theory of art's purpose. TtKy and knowing." 1 .
are most famous for demonstrating ?.nd defending the need to emphasiie form and Poetry is a special way of thmking; it is,
structi-re la Uumiture over conicnt and ihc faa that social conditions may be said lo precisely, a way of tliiriking in images, a way
produce literary worL,. They tended to view literary works not as monolithic aes- which permits what is generally called "econ-
thetic wholes with prescribed effeps, but as coUeaior»s of dcvices that Inleraa in a omy of mental effort," a way w hich makes for
textual field; the result may or may not produce an overall aesthetic effect. Tlic "a sensation of the relative ease of the pro-
ultimate purpose of literary art is estrangement, or "making strange," displacing cess." Aesthetic feeling is the reaction to this
lang"age out of its usual, workaday meaning and ficcing it to siimuiaie and pr dr :c economy. Tliis is how the acadetrucian Ov-
fresh litiguisiic apprehensions—of language itself ard of the wo.'-ld. These goals, .cyaniko-Kulikovsky' who undoubtedly read
however, tended to conflia with the governmental aims of socialist realism, and in the works of Potebnya attentively, almost cer-
19Jo the Formalists were officiall) suppressed. tainly understood and faithfully stmimarized
"Art as Technique" (1917) is Shklovsky's ceninil theoretical statement and one the deas of his teacher. Potebnya and his
of the primary documents of Russian Formalism. In it Shklovsky atucks then-current numerous disciples consider poetry a special
aesthetic theories (espedally Potebnyaism) about the essence of an being a "thinkini; kind of thinking—thinking by means of Im-
in images." The imagist approach to literary art, of course, is highlighted in Anglo- ages: they feci that the purpose of imagery is
American poetic imagism and in New Oiticism. Shklovsky, however, argues against to help channel various objects and activities
the centiality of "images" and instead defines a field of literary activity in which into groups and to clarify the unknown by
linguistically based dcvic-j (such as meuphor and metonymy) create an experience means of the known. Or, as Potebnya wrote:
more complex, and possibly less coherent, than tlie examination U Images can
suggest. In On the Theory of Prose (1925) and Tl\e Technique of Hie Winer's Craji The relationsliip of the image to what is
(1928) he elaborated these notions'in theoreilcal and practical criticism. In 1928, being clarified is that; (a) the Image is the
though, he began to recant formalist theory—especially in "War and Peace of Leo fixed predicate of that which undergoes
Tolstoy" (1928)—and tried to Include sociological material in his interpreutions. change—the luichanging means of attraa-
Both his earlier formalist and later socialist criticism are inOuenUal, as we will see ing what is perceived as changeable.... ( t )
later, in structuralism—wliicli in many ways is tlie extension of work done by the tlie image Is far clearer and simpler tlian
Formalists in their brief but producUve fifteen years. what it clarifies.4
. Ill oilier words;
Since ti e purjjose of Imagery Is to remind
us, by approximation, of those meanings
for wliich the image sunds, and since.
Con Davis Robert and Ronald Schleiler. 1994. Conlsmporary Ulerary Cnticlsm and C u M a l
Studies, 3td e d . New Yoik and London; Longman
261
apart from this, iimgcry is unnecessary for
thought, we must be more fa miliar with the
image than with what it clarifies.'
It would be instructive to try to apply this
principle to Tyutchev's comparison of sum-
mer lightning to deaf and Jumb demons or to
Gogol's comparison of the sky to the garment
of God.4
•'Without image;/ there is no art"—"Art is
Uiinking in images." These ina.xims l»a* e led
to far-fetched Interpretations of individual
works, of art. Aaempts have been made to
evaluate even music, architecture, and lyric
poetry as imagistic thought, After a quarter of
a century of such attempts Ovsyaniko-Xuii-
kovfky finally had to ivs'gn lyric poe'jy, ar-
cluleaure, and music lo a spcdai category of
im.-.geiess a-, and to define ihcrn as lyric arts
appealing directly to the emotions. And thus
he admitted an enoraious area of art which is
not a mode, of thouglit. A pan of this area,
lyric poetry (narrowly considered), is quite
like the visual arts: it is also verbal. But, much
more Imffortant, visual art passes quite im-
perceptibly into nonvisual art; yet our per-
ceptions of both are similar.
Nevenheless, the definition "Art is think ng
in images," which means 0 omit the usual
middle terms of the'argument) that art is the
making of symbols, has survived Uieilownfail
of the theory which supported it. It survives
chiefly in tlie wake of Symbolism, especially
among the theorists of the Symbolist move-
ment.
Many sUU believe, then, tJiat thinking in
Images—tliinking in specific scenes of
"roatls and landscape" and "furrows and
bountlaries"7—is the diief choraaerisdc of
poetry. Consequently, tliey should have cx-
peeled the liisiory of "imagistic art," as they
call it, to consist of a liistory of changes in
262 .
Imagery. Bui we find ihai images change Ul'
Uc: from century to ccntury, from naiion to
Tudon, torn poet lo poet, ihcy flow on with-
out changing. Images belong to no one; ihcy
are " ^ e Lord's." The more you undersund an
age, the more convinced you become that the
Images a given poet used and which you
thought his own were taken almost un-
changed trora another poet. The works of
poets arc classified or grouped according to
the new techniques that poets discover and
share, and according to their arrangement
and development of the resources of lan-
guage; poets are much more concerned with
arranging images than with creating them.
Images are given to poets; the ability to re-
member them is far more Important than the
ability to cirate them.
I m a g i ^ thought does not, in any case,
include all the aspects of an nor even all the
aspects of verbal art. A change in imagery is
not essential to the development of poetry.
We know thai frequently an expression is
thought to be poetic; to be created for aes-
thetic pleasure, although aaually it was cre-
ated without such intent—e.g., Anncnsky's
opinion that the Slavic languages are espe-
cially poetic and Andrey Bely's ecstasy over
the technique of pladng adjectives after
noims, a technique used by eightccnth<cn-
tury Russian poets. Bcly joyfully accepts the
tcchaique-as something aaistic, or more ex-
actly, as intended, if we consider intention as
art. Actually, this reversal of the usual adjcc-
Uve-noun ordA is a peculiarity of tJie lan-
guage (which had been inlluenced by
Church Slavonic). Thus a work may be (1)
intended as prosaic and acceoted as poetic,
or (2) Intended as poetic and accepted as
prosaic. This suggests that the artistry at-
Uibutcd to a given work results Crom the way
we pcrceive it. By "works of art," in the nar-
row sense, we mean works created by special
techniques designed to make iJie works as
obviously artistic as possible.
Potebnya's conclusion, wludi can be for-
IV / srnuciuFULiSM AWO SEMIOT.CS
mulated "poetry equals imagery," gave rise to
the who.c Uicory iliat "imagery equals sym-
bolism." that the image may serve as ihc in-
variable predicate of various subjects. (This
corclusion. because it expressed ideas similar
to the theories of the Symbolists, intrigued
some of their leading representatives—An-
drey Bely, Mcreilikovsky and his "CTcmal
companions"—and, in fact, formed the basis
of the theory of Symbolism.) The conclusion
stems pan'y from the faa that Poirbnya did
not clistipgulsh between the language of po-
etry .and the language of prose. Conse-
quently, he ignored the faa that there are two
aspects of imagery: imagery as a praoical
means of diinking, as a means of placing ob-
jects within categories; and imagery as poetic,
as a means of reinforcing an Impression. '
shall clarify with an example. I want to attract
the anention of a young child who is caii.ng
bread and buuer and getting the butter on her
fingers. I call, "Hey, buttctfmgctsr' This is a
figure of speech, a clearly prosaV; trope. Now
a different example. The child is playing with
my glasses and drops ihem. I call, "Hey, but-
terfingersl"* This figure of speech is a poetic
ixope. On the first example, "buttcrfingcrs" Is
metonymic, in the second, meUphoric—but
Uiis is not what I want to stress.)
Poetic imagery is a means of creating the
sux)ngest possible impression. As a uicthod it
is, depending upon its purpose, neither more
nor less cffeciivc thar> other poetic tech-
nicjues; it is nciUicr more nor less eirectivc
than ordinary or negative parallelism, com-
parison, repetition, balanced structure,
hyperbole, the commonly accepted rhetorical
figures, and all Close methods which empha-
size the cmouonal efTea of an expression (in-
cluding words or even articulated sounds).'
But poetic imagery only externally resembles
either the stock imagery of fables and ballads
or thinking in images—e.g., tJie example in
Ovsyrniko-Kuiikovsky's Language and Art
in which a iittlL* giri calls a ball a litde water-
melon. Foctic iinagk ry is but one of the de-
VIKTOR SHKLOVSKY
vices of poetic language. Prose Imagery is a
means of abstraction: a litUc watermelon in-
stead of a lampshade, or a litilo watermelon
instead of a head, is only the abstraction of
one of the object's characteristics, that of
roundness. It is no different from saying that
the head and the melon are both round. This
is what is nteant, but it has nothing to do with
poetry.
1"he law pf tiie economy of creative effort is
also generally accepted, (llerbcnl Spencer
'^TOIe:
On seeking for somt clue to the law under-
lying Uiese curreni maxims, we may see
shadowed forth in many of them, the im-
portance of economizing the reader's c r
Uie hearer's attcniiOQ. To so present ideas
that they may be apprehended with the
least possible mcnul effort. Is the desidera-
rum towards wliich most of the ntles ibove
quoted point. . . . Hence, carrying out tlie
• metaphor that language is the veh: .le of
thought, tlicre seems rcasorj to think that in
all cases ilic fnction and inertia of Lie vehi-
cle deduct from its efficiency: a" J that in
composition, the chief, if not ihe sole thing '
to be done, is to reduce the friction and
inertia to the smallest possible amount.10
And Rlichard] Avenarius:
If a soul'possess inexhaustible suength.
then, of course, it would be Uidiffercnt to
kno'w how much might be spent from tliis
inexhausuble source; only the necessarily
expended time would l>c important. But
since its fotces are limited, one b led to
expect that the soul hastens to carry out the
apperceptive process as expediently, as
possible—that is, with comparaUvely the
least expenditure of energy, and, hence,
I i wi„i comparatively the best result.
Pctrazliitsky, widi oiJy one reference to die
general law of mental effort, rejecu fWUliam)
263
James's theory of die physical basis of emo-
Uon, a theory wWch contradicts his oau.
Even Alexander Veselovsky acknowledged
the principle of die economy of crcaxrve ef-
fort, a theory especially appealing in cbe
study of rhythm, and agreed with Spencer "A
satisfaaory style is precisely that style which
delivers the greatest amount of Uiought in the
fewest words." And Andrey Bcly, despite the
faa that in his beaerpiges he gave numerous
examples of "roughened" rhythm" and (par-
Ucularly in the examples from Baratynsky)
showed the dilficuldes ihnerent in poetic epi-
thets, also dioughtit neccs'.ary to speak of the
law of the economy ol creative effort in bis
' book"—a heroic effon to create a theory of
an based on unverified facts from andquated
sources, on his vast khowledae of the tech-
niques of poetic creaUvity, and on Kraye-
vich's high school physics text
These ideas about the economy of energy,
as well as about the law and aim of cread'ity.
are perhaps true in their application to "prac-
tical" language; they were,'howtrvcr, ex-
tended to poedc language. Hence they do not
distinguish pro'perly between the laws of
practical language and the laws oi poetic lan-
guage. Tlie faa diat Japancsj poetry his
sounds no', four.d in conversaUonal Japanese
was hardly tlie first faaual indicadon of the
differences between poedc and everyday Ian
guage.XcixJakubiasicy has nbsctyed.that the
law of the dissimilaUon of liquid sounds docs
not apply to poetic language.11 Tliis sug-
gested to liim Uiat poeUc language tolerated
the admission of hard-to-pronounce con-
• glomeradons of siiiular sounds. In his anicle,
one of the first examples of scientific qid-
cism, he indicates inducdvely the conuast fl
shall say more about this point later) between
the laws of poedc language and the laws of
practical language."
Wc must, dien, speak about die laws of
expenditure and economy in poeUc language
not on die bs s of an analogy widj prose, but
on the basis of die laws of poedc language.
 :^c>4
If we s u n to examine the general laws of
perception, wc iec that as perception be-
comes habitual, it becomes automatic. Thus,
for rrtm mple. ali of our habits retreat into the
area of the imconscioiLsty automatic: if one
rem embers the sensations of holding a pen or
of speaking in a foreign language for the fint
time and compares that with his feeling at
performing the action for the ten thousandth
time, he will r jree with us. Such habituation
pcplains the prindplej by which, in ordinary
' speech, we leave phrases unfinished and
words half btpressed In this process, .ideally
realized in algebra, th l ^gs are replaced by
symbols. Complete words are not expressed
in rapid speech: their initial sounds are barely
perceived. Alexander Pogodin offers the ex-
ample of a boy considering the sentence "The
Swiss mououins arc beautiful" in the fonn of
a series of letters: T, S, m, a, i>."
this characteristic of thought not only sug-
gests the mctiiod of algebra, but even
prompts the choice of symbols Ocr.crs, espc-
ciiUy initial leners).' By this "algebraic"
method of thought wc apprehend objects
only as shapes with Imprecise cxr.cnsions: we
do not see them in their entirety but rather
recognize 'hjm by their main characteristics.
We see the object as though it were en-
veloped in a sack. We know what it is by its
configuration, but we see only its siDioueue.
The object, perceived thus in the manner of
prose perception, f des and does not leave
even a first impression! ultimately even the
essence of what it was is forgonen. Such per-
ception explains why wc fail to hear the
prose word in its entirety (see Leo Jaku-
binsky's anicle") and. hence, why (along
with other slips of the tongue) we fail to pro-
nounce it. The process of "algebrization," the
overautomatizaiion of an objea, permiu the
greatest economy of perceptive effort. Either
objects are aisigned only one proper ica-
ture a number, for example—or else they
function as though by fohnula "and do not
even appear in cogniUon:
'V / S T R U C T U R A L I S M A N D S E M I O T I C S
I was cleaning a room and. meandering
about, approached the divan and couldn't
remember whether or not 1 had dusted it.
Sincc IIKSC movements arc hablrual and
unconscious, I could not remember and
felt thai it w a j impossible to remember—
so thai if I had dusted it and forgot—that
Is, had acted unconsciously, then it was the
same as if I had n o t If some conscious
persoa had been watching, then the fa a
could be established.. If, however, no one
was looking, or looking on unconsdously,
if the whole complex lives of many people
go ou unconsciously, then such lives arc as
if they had never been."
, ii" hence wc cannot say anything signifi-
And so life is reckoned as nothing. Habitu-
alizaUoo devours works, clothes, furniture,
one's wife, and the fear of war. "If the whole
complex fives of many people go on uncon-
sciously, then such lives arc as if they had
nevrr been " And ?tt exists thit cnc may rc-
eover^thc smsation of life: it exists to malcc
one feel things, to make the stone stony. The
purpose of art is to impart the sensation of
things as they are perceived and not as they
are knonn. The technique of an is to make
objects "unlamiliar," to make forms difficult,
to Increase the difficulty and length of per-
ceptiOQ because the process of percepUon is
an acsihcuc end in itself and must be p r o-
longed. Alt is a utty of experiencing the ai.-
fulness of an object; the object is not impor-
/an/.
The range of poetic (artistic) work extends
from the sensory to the cogniUve, from poeuy
to prose, bom the co.icietc to the absuaa:
from Ccrvanies' Don Quixote—scholastic
and poor nobleman, half consdously bearing
his humiliation in the coun of the duke—lo
the broad but empty Don Qjixote of Tur-
gencv; Crt>m Charlemagne to the name "king"
(in R'jssian Charles'* and "king" cbviously
derive from the same root, korol\. The mean-
ing of a work broadens to tlic extent tliat
I apologize for this harsh example, but it is
artfulness and artistry diminish; thus a fable
typical of Tolstoy's way of pricking the con-
VlKTOa SHKLOVSKY
2 5 5
symbolizes more ilian a poem, and a proverb sQcncc. The /imnlur iict' of r.- j^ping -j.
more 'han a fable. Consequently, the least unfamiliar both by the description and br o e
self-contradiaory part of Potebnya's theory is proposal to change its form without "*
his ueatment of Uie fable, which, from his its nature. Tolstoy uses • this tcchniquc
point of view, he investigated thoroughly. "uefamiliarizaUon" constantly. The
But .sincc his theory did not provide for "ex-
of "Kholstomer," for ctample, is a horse, l a i
pressive" works of art, he could not finish his
It Is the horse's point of view (rather tiao a
book. As wc know. Notes on the Theory of person s) that makes Uic content oif the ssoc
LUerature was published in 1905, thirteen
seem lufamiliar. Here is how the horse re-
years after Potebnya's death. Potebnya him- gards the institution of private property:
self completed only the scctipn on the fable."
(Vfter wc sec m object several times, we
I understood WcU what they ssid aboct
begin to recognize it. The o b j e a is In front of
whipping arid Christianity. But then I w-as
^ and we know ubout it, but we do not see
absolute*" In the dark. What's the incacog
of -his own," "his colt"? From . these
cant about it. Art removes objects from the
phrases ! saw that people thought ttcie
automatism of perception in several wayi.
was some son of connecUpn between me
Here I want to illustrate a way used r e p c t -
and the stable. At that time 1 simply i k1
cdiy by Leo Tolstoy, that writer, who, for Mc-
not undersund the connection. Only much
rezhkovsky at least, seems to present things
later, when they separated me from tbe
as if he hijnself saw d.em, saw them in their
other horses, did I begin .to undersurd. "
entL'cty, and did not alter them.
But even then I simply could not see w h u
ToUtoy makes the famliiar seem s u ^ g e by
it meant when they caUed me "man's prop-
not nara-ng the familiar object. He describes
erty." The wortls "rny horse" referred to
an objea as if he were seeing it for the first
me, a living horse, ant' seemed as stricge
time, an event as if it were happening for the
to me as the words "my land," "my air."
first time. In describing something he avoids ' "my water."
the accepted names of its parts and instead
But the words made a strong Impres-
names corresponding parts of other objects.
sion on m d 1 thought about them con-
For example, in "Shame" Tolstoy "defamiliar-
stantly, and only after the most diverse ex-
izes" the idea of flogging in tliis way: "to strip
periences witli people did 1 undersund.
people who have broken the law. to hurl
finaUy, what they meant. They meant this:
them to the floor, and to rap on their bouoms
In life people are guided by words, not by
wiUi switches," and. after a few lines, "to lash
deeds. It's not so much that they love the
about oil tlie naked buttocks." Then he re- .
marks: possibUiry of doing or not doing some-
Lhing as it is the possibUity of spealdng
with words, agreed on among tliemsctves.
Just why precisely this stupid, savage
about various topics. Such arc the words'
means of causing pain and not any
my1 and mine," wluch they apply to
other—why not prick the shoulders or any
different things, creatures, objects, and
pan of the body with needles, squeeze the
even to land, people, and horses. They
. hands or tlie feet in a vise, or anything like
tliaL' agree that only one may say "mine" about
this, that, or the other thing. And the one
who says "mine" about the greatest num-
ber of tlungs is. accordiig to the game
which tlie/ve agreed to among them-

selves, ihc one ihey consider the mosi
happy. 1 don't know ihc point of all this,
but-it's true. For a long time 1 tried to ex-
pbin It to myscl/ in icrms of some kind of
real gain, but I had to reject that cjtplana-
tion bccause it was wrong.
Many of thoie, for insuncc, who called
mc their own never rode on mc—al-
though othcis did. And so with those who
fed me. Then again, the coachman, the
veterinarians, and the outsiders In general
treated me kindly, yet those who called mc
their own did not. In due time, liaving wid-
ened the scope of my observations, I satis-
fied myself that the notion "my," not only
in relation to us horses, has no other basis
than a narrow human instina wiiich is
called a sense of or right to private prop-
erty. A man says "this house is mine" and
never lives in it; he only worries about its
construction and upkeep. A merchant says
"my shop," "my dry goods shop," for in-
stance, and does not even wear clothes
made from the better cloth he keeps in his
own shop.
There are people who call a traa of land
their own, but they never set eyes on it and
never take a Strol! on it. There arc people
who caU others their own, yet never sec
them. And the whole relationship bctwcrn
them b that the so-called "owners" treat
• the others unjustly.
There are people who call women their
own, or their "wives." but their women live
with other men. And people strive not for
the good in life, but for goods they can call
their own.
1 am now convinced that this is the es-
sential di/Tcrencc between people and our-
selves. And therefore, not even considering
the other ways in which we are superior,
but considering just this one virtue, we can
bravely claim to stand higher than men on
the ladder of living creatures. The actions
of men, at least those'with whom I have
had dealings, are guided by words—ours,
by deeds.
IV / STRUCTUFUUSM ANO S£MLOTICJ
The horse is killed before the end of the
siory, but tlie. manner of the narrative, its
tecimiquc, docs not change:
Much later they put Serpuidiovsk'y's body,
which had eipericnccd the wo-.-ld.-tvhJch
had eaten and drunk, into the ground.
They could profitably send neither his
hide, nor his flesh, nor his bones any-
where.
But since his dead body, wliich had
gone about in the worid for twenty years,
was a great botdcn to everyone, its btiriaJ
was only a superfluous embarrassment for
the people. For a long time no one had
•leedcd him; for a long time he had been
a burden on aJi. But nevertheless, the
dead who buried ihc dead found it neces-
sary to dress ihis bloated bod). which im-
mediately began to rot, in a good uniform
and good boots: to lay it in a good new
coffin with new ta.vsels at tie fcur concn;,
then t J place tiiis new coffin In another of
lead and ship it to Moscow: there to ex-
hume andem bones and at just that SF>ot,
to hide iliis putrefying body, swarming
with maggots, in its new uniform and
clean boots, and to cover it over com-
pletely with dirt.
ITius we see that at the end of the story Tol-
stoy continues to use the technique even
though the motivation for it [the rt:ason for its
use) Is gone.
la War and Peace Tolstoy uses the same
technique in describing whole battles as if
battles were something new. These dcrcrip-
tions are loo long to quote; it would be ncccs-
sary to extraci a considerable part of the four-
volume novel. But Tolstoy uses the same
method in describing the drawing room and
the theater
The middle of the stage consisted of flat
boards; by the sides stood painted pic-
tures representing uces, and al the back a
linen doth was strctchcd down to the
VIKTOR S H K L O V S K Y
floor boards. Maidens in red bodices and
white skitts sat on the middle of the sugc.
One, very fat, in a .white silk dress, sat
apart on a narrow bench to which a green
pasteboard box was glued from behind.
They were aU singing somethlns. When
they had finished, the maiden in white
approached the prompter's box. A man in
silk with tight-fitting pu.its on his fat legs
approached her wiih a plume and began
to sing and spread his arms Li dismay.
The man' in the Ught pants finished
his song alone: then the girl sa..g. After
that both remained silent as the music •
resounded; and the man, obviously
waidng to begin singing his part with
her again, began to run his fingers over
the hand of the giil in the white dncss.
riicy finished their song together, and
everyone in tlic theater began to clap
and shout. Bui the men and women
on stage, who represented lovers,
staned to bow, smiling and raising ihej-
hands.
''' second act tl'-rc were pictures
representing monuments and openings in
the linen doth representing the moon-
light, and Uiey raised lamp shades on a
frame. As tlic musidans st.-rtcd to play tlic
bass horn and counter-bass, a large nurn-
ber of people in black mantles poured
onto the stage from.right-and.lefi. The
people, with something like daggos in
their hand", started to wave their arms.
Then still more people came running out •
and began to drag away the maiden who
had been wearing a white dress but who
now wore one of sky blue. They did not
drag her off imiriediately, but sang with
her for a long time before, dragging her
away. Three limes they struck on sonic-
tWng meullic behind' the side scenes,
and everyone got down on his knees
and began to chant a prayer. Several
times all of this activity was interrupted
by enthusiastic shouts from the specta-
tors.
267
The third a a is described:.
. . . But suddenly a storm blew up. Chr>-
mauc scales and chort's of dirninishcd vcv-
enths were heard ip tlie orchestra. Evcrj".
one tan about and again ilicy dragged oije
ofthe bystanders behind the scenes as tbe
curtain fell.
Ln the fourth act, 'Tiicre was some sort of
devil who sang, waving his hsnus, until tbe
boards were moved out from under him and
he dropped down."'® *
Ln Resurrection Tolstoy describes the drv
and the court in the same way: he uses a
similar technique in "Kreutzer Sonata" w-bcn
he describes marriage—"Why, if people,
have aa affinity of souls, must they sleep to-
gethex?" But he did not defamiliariic onJy
those things he sncerrd at:
Pierre SIOCKT up from his ncrw comraUcs
and made his way between the campfira
to ihe other side of (he road where, it
seemed, the captive soldiers were held. He
wanted to uUc with them. The French sen-
try stopped him on the road and ordered
hira to return. Pierre did so, but not to the
campfire, t^ot to fiis comrades; but to an
abandoned, unlumessed carriage. On the
grtjund, near the wheel of the carriage, he
sat cross=lcggcd.ln the Turkish fashion, and
lowered his head. He sat motiorJess for a
long time, thinking. More Llia.'i 'an hour
passed. No one disturbed-him. Suddenly
he burst out laugliing with his robust, good
naturcd laugh—so loudly tliat Uic men
near him. looked around, si*.prised at his
conspicuously strange laughter/
Ha. ha, ha," laughed Pierre. And he
began to tallc to liimself. 'The soldier didn't
allow mc to pass. They caught mc, barred
me. Me—me—my immonal soul. Ha, ha,
ha," he laughed with tears starting in his
c*—s.
Pierre glanced at the sky, into the depths
ofthe departing, playing stars. "And all this

is mine, aU this is in inc, and aU dUs.ls i."
thought Pierre, ^And aU this ihcy caught
and put In a planked enclosure." He smiled
and went off to his comj-ades to lie down to
sleep."
Anyone who knows Tolstoy can find sev-
eral hundred such passages In his work. His
method of seeing things out of their normaj
context Is also apparent in his last works.
Tolstoy described the dogmas and rimais he
attacked as if they were unfamiliar, substitut-
ing everyday meanings for the customarily
religious meanings of the words comnon in
church rituaj. Many persons were painfully
wounded; they considered it blasphemy to
present as strange and monstrous what they
acccpted as sacred. Their reaction was due
chiefly to the technique through which Tol- •'
stoy pcrccivcd and reported his envirc-imenL
And after turning to what he had long
avoided, Tolstoy found that his percepUons
had miieoled.his i.iith.
fhe technique of defamiiiarization is not
Tolstoy's alone. I cited Tolstoy because his
work is generally known.
Now, having explained the nature of this
lechxuque, let us try to determine the approx-
imate limits of its applicaUon. I personally feel'
that defamiiiarization is found almost every-
where form is found. In other words, the dif-
ference between Potebnya's point of view
. fist^ratively with the obvious purpose of lead- -
and ours is this: An image is not a permanent
referent for those mutable complexities of life
which are revealed through it; its puiposc is
not to make us perceive meaning, but to cre-
aic a special percepUon of the objer—iJ en-
atesa "vision" of the object instead of serving
US a means Jor knouHng U.
The purpose of imagery in crotic art can be
studied even more accuratcly; an croUc objca
is usuaUy present. 1 as if it were seen for the
first time. Gogol, in "Chrisunas Eve," pro-
vided the following example:
Here he approaclicd her more closcly,
coughed, smiled at her, touched her
IV / S T R U C T U R A L I S M A N D S E M I O T I C S
plump, bare arm wiili his fingers, and ex-
pressed himself in a way that showed both
his cunning and his conceit,
"And what is this you have, magnificent
Solokha.5" and having said tliis, he jumped
back a Uitle.
"What? An arm. Osip NildforovichJ" she
answered.
"Hmm. an arm! He, he, he/" said the sec-
retary cordially, satisfied with lUs begin-
ning. He wandered about the room.
And what U this you have, dearest
SololdiaT he said in the same way, having
approached her igiia and -grasped her
lighUy by the neck, and in the very same
way he jumped back.
"As if you don't see, OsIp Nikofotx)vich!"
answered Solokha, "a neck, and on my
neck a necklace."
"HnunJ On the neck a necklace! He, he,
he!" and the secretary again wandered
about the room, rubbing h'5 Inr.ds.
And what is tfiis you have, incor^ipara-
ble Solokha.'" . . . It is not known to what
the seaetary would suetdi his long fingers
now.
-yid ICiut Ham;ura has the following In
Hunger": "Two wliite prodigies appeared
from beneath her blouse."
Erotic subjects may also be presented
ing us away from their "recognition." Hence
sexual organs are referred to in teniis of lock
and key" or quilting tooU1' or bow and
arrow, or rings and marlinspikes, as in
r odd but inutaUve sounds (" Twas brillig and
the legend of Suvyor. in which a married
man docs not recognize his wife, who is
disguised as a warrior. She proposes a rid-
dle:
i^emember, Stavyor, do you rcca,j
How we liiUe ones walked to and fro in tlie
street'
You and 1 logctJier sometimes played widi
a nufUnspike —
You had a silver marUnspike,
VIKTOR S H K L O V S K Y
Hut I had a gilded ring.'
1 found myself at it just now and then.
But you fell in with it ever and alwaj-j."
Says Stavyor, son of Godinovich.
Wliad 1 Jidn't play with you at
- marlinspikes!"
Then Vasilisa Mikulichna; "So he says.
Do you remember. Suvyor. do you recall.
Now must you know, you and I togeUier
learned to read and write:
Mine was an ink-well of silver.
And yours a pen of gold?
But I just moistened it a Ucle now and
then.
And I Just moistened it ever and always.
in a different version of the legend we luid a
key to the riddle:
Here the formidable envoy Vasilyushka .
Raised her skirts to the vrry navel.
And then the young Stavyor, son of
Godinovich,
Hecognized her gilded ring. . . ,»
But defamiiiarization is not only a tech-
. iiique of the croUc riddle—k technique of
euphemism it is also the basis and point of
aU riddles. Every riddle pretends to show Its
subject ciUier by words which spcci/y or dt-
scribc it but which, during the telling, do noi
seem applicable (the tj-pc: "bbck and white
and 'red' read—aU over") or by means of
, o v c s / Did
giinble in the
Even erotic images not intended as riddles
are dcfaniiliarized ("bjobies." "taiu,"
picce, etc.). In popular imagery tliere is
gcncraUv soiiictliinn equivalent lo "trampling
the grass" and "brriking the guelder-rose."
• The similarity of technique here and in Tol-
The tcchiu'que of defamiliarizailon is abso-
lutely dear in the widespread Image—a
motif of erotic affecuUon—In which a bear
and odier wUd beasts (or a dcvU, with a dif-
ferent reason for nonrecognition) do not rec-
ognize a man."
269
T^e lack of rccognjuon In tic foC<r5.-ing
tale is quite typical:
A peasant plowing a fickl -a-iih i pie-
bald mare. A bear approac±>ed hiaj ind
isked, "Unde, what's made t±ds mare pie-
bald for youi""
"I did the picbalding ai>'sc2l'
"But how?"
.Let me, and I'll do tlie s:yDe for vou."
The bear agreed. The pcasaza tied his
feet together with a rope, took tbc plough-
share torn the two-wheeied plough,
heated it on the fire, and appbed it to his
flanks. He made the bear ptcbaid by
scorching his fiir down to the hide wjtb tie
hot ploughshare. The man untied the b-rar
which w a n off and la? down wider tree."
A magpie flew at the peasant to pick at
the meat on his shirt. He caught her and
broke one of her kgs. Ilie magpie iiew o J
to perch in Uie same tree under which the
bear was lying. Then,, after'the magpie, a
horsefly landed on the mare, sat douu, and
began to bite. The peasant caught the fly,
took a stick, shoved it up its rear, and let it
go. The fly went to the tree where the bear
and the magpie were. There all three sat.
The peasant's wife came to bring his din-
ner to the field. The man and .'tis wife fin-
ished their dinner in the fresh air, and he
began to wresUe -nith her on the ground.
The bear saw this aj.d said to the magpie
and the fly, "Holy priesu! The peasant
wajit5 to piebald someone agaix;."
The magpie said, "No, he vrxnts to break
someone's legs."
The fly said, "No, he wants to shove a
stick up someone's rump.""
stoy's "Kholstomer," is, I think, obvious.
Quite often In literature tlie sexual act itself
is defamiijarized: for example, the Dccara-
eron refers to"scraping out a barrel." "catch-
iJig nightingales," "gay wool-bcating work"
(tlie last is not developed In tlic ploi). Defa-

mUJarization U often used Ln d e s c r i b i n g the
scxuaJ organs.
A whole series of plots is based on such i
lack of recogniiion: for example, in Afana-
syev'i Iruimau Tata the ernire story of "The
Shy Mistress- is based on the fact that an ob-
jea is not called by its proper name—or. in
other words, on a game of nonrccognition.
So too in Onchulcov's "Spotted Per :oats."
ule no. 525, and also in "Tlie Bear and the
Haic"fromIntinuUe Tales, in which the bear
and the hare make a "wound."
Such constructions as "the pesde. and the
mortar,".or "Old Nick and the infema! re-
gions" (Decameron), arc also examples of
llie technique of defamiliariiation. And in ir.y
article on plot construction I write about
defamiliarization in psychological parallel-
ism. Here, then, I repeat that the perception
of disharoiony in a harmonious context is im-
portant in parallelism. The purpose of paral-
lelism, like the general purpose of imagery, is
to transfer the usual perception of an object
Into the sphere of a new perception—that is,
to make a unique semantic modification.
In snidying fkietic speech in its phonctic
and lexical sUMaure as well as in its clunacr-
istic distribution qf woros and in the charaacr-
Istic thought structures compounded from tlie
words, we find everywhere the anisiic trade-
roark that is, wefir,dmaterial obviously cre-
ated to remove the automatism of perception;
the author's purpose is to create tlie vision
which results from that deautomatizcd per-
ception. A work is created "artisUcally" so that
its percepdon is impeded and the greatest
fKisslble elTea is produced through tJie s l o w -
ness of the percepdon. As a result of this l i n g e r -
Ing, the object is perceived not in its extension
in space, but, so to speak, in its continuity.
Thus "poeUc language" gives satisfaction. Ac-
cording to Aristode, poeUc language must ap-
pear suange and wonderful: and. in fact, it is
often actually foreign: the Sumerian used by
the Assyrians, the Latin of Euro'pe during the
Middle Ages, the Arabisms of the Persians, the
IV I STRUCTunALtSW AND SE'^iOTiCS
Old Bulgarian of Russian Literature, or the ele-
vated, almost Uterary language of folk songs.
The common arcliaisius of poetic language,
the inmcacy of the sweet new style [dolce stil
nuovo),'* the obscure style of the language of
Amaut Daniel with the "roughened" [hane)
forms which make pronunciation Uijfl-
cutt—these are ujed In much the same way.
Leo Jakubinsky has demonstrated the princi-
ple of phonctic "roughening" of poetic lan-
guage in the particular ease of the repetition of
identical sounds. The language of poetry is.
then, a difficult, roughened, impeded lan-
guage. In a few special Insunces the language
of poetry approximates the language of prose,
but this docs not violate the principle of
"roughened" form.
Her sister was caUed Taty:na.
For the first time we shall
Wilfully brigh'cn the dclicaie
Pages of 3 pove! wi'h such a name.
wrote Pushidn. ITie usual poetic language fo.
Pushkin's contemporaries was tlie elegant
style of Uerzhavin; but Pushkin's style, be-
cause it seemed trivial then, was unc.'<iKa-
edly difficult for tJiem. 'We should remember
the consternation of Pushkin's coniempo-
raries ovrr tlie vulgariry of.hts expressions,
lie used the popular language as a special
do'icc for prDlongir.g-3ne,ntion.'just as his
contemporaries generally used Russian
words in their usually French speech (see
Tolstoy's examples in War and Peace).
Just now a still more cliarraerisUc phe-
nomenon is under way. Russian Lilerary lan-
guage, which was originally foreign to Rr ;sia,
has so permeated the language of the people
that it has blended with their convetsaUon.
On the other hand. Uterarure has now begun
to show a tendency towards the use of dia-
. IWs apparently conclusive obsenaUon suf-
lects (Rrmizov, Klyuyev, Essenin, and oth-
ers," so unequal in talent and so alike in
language, arc intentionally provincial) and of
barbarisms (which gave rise to the Sevcryanin
VIKTOa SHKLOVSKY
g/oupJ'). And currendy .M'ixim Gorky is
changing lis diction from the old literary lan-
guage to the new literary colloquialism of
Leskov.JJ Ordinary speech and literary lan-
guage have thereby changed places (see the
work, of Vyacheslav Ivanov and many others).
And finally, a strong tendency, led by Khleb-
, nikov, to crcate a new and property poeUc
language has emerged. In the light of these
developments we can define poetry as atten-
uated, tortuous speech. PoeUc. speech is
formed speech. Prose Is onJinaiy speech—•
economical, easy, proper, the goddess of
piose Idea prosae] is a goddess of the accu-
ate, facilc type, of the "direa" expression of
a child. I shall discuss roughened form and
retardation as the gereraj law of art at greater
length in an article on plot con$lruction.,,
Nevertheless, tlie posldon of those who
urge tl)e idea of the economy of artistic en-
e^y as something which exists in and even
cis^nguishes poeUc language seems, at first
glance, tenable for the problem of rhythm.
Spencer's description of rhythm would seem
to be absolutely incontesuble:
Just as Uie body in receiving a series of
varying concussions, must keep the mus-
cles ready to meet the most violent of them,
as not knowing when such may come: so,
the mind in receiving unarranged anicula-
Uons. mast keep Its perspectives, active
enough to recognize the least easUy caught
sounds. And as, if the concussions recur in
definite order, the body may husband its •
forces by adjusting die resisunce needful
for cach coorussion: so. if the syllables be
rhytlunically arranged, the mind may econ-
omize its energies by andcipating the atten-
tion required for cach syllable.^
fers from die common fallacy, the confusion
of tlie laws of poetic and prosaic language. In
7he Philosophy' of Style Spencer failed utterly
to disdnguish between them. But rhythm of
271
prose, or of a work soiig like "Dubinushka,"
permjts the members of the work crcw to do
thelr.necessary "groaning together" and also
eases the work by making it automatic. And.
'-rl fact. It is easier tOt march with music than
without it, and to march during an animated
conversation is even easier, for the walking U
done unconsciously. Thus the rhythm of
prose Is an Important automatizing element:
the rhythm of poetry is not There is "order"
in art," yet not a single column of a Greek
temple sunds exactly in its proper ortler, po-
ciic rtiytfim is slmiliriy disordered rhythm
Attempts 10' systemati2ic the UTcgulariiies
have been made, and such atwni;ts arc part
of the current-problem in the theory' of
rhythm. It is obvious that the systematization
will not work, for in reality the problc£p. is not
one of complicating the rhythm but of disord-
ering the rhythm—a disordering which can-
not be prcdiaed. ShofJd 'he disonlrrtng of
Aythm became a convendon. it would be
ineffecuvc as a device for the. rougherung of
language. But I will not discuss rhythm in
more dcuil siiice 1 intend to wrLC a book
about it."
Translated by Lee T. U?,io/i
and Marion J. Re is
NOTES
1. AJonnilcr Pmebor-. b lupisok po iforU ila.'anosll
(INCKCI on the Theory of Unjiuagc) (KhoAov. 1905), 85.
2. IbiJ., p. 97.
}. Dmiuy Ovsyaniko-KuLkoyity ( i a } 5 - 1 9 2 0 ) . a Icjd.
i/ig Ruisun schoUr, wis j n ca/1)' conuibulor lo .Maraisi
periodicals and a lilcrar/coiucrvaUvc, anugonisijc co-
w m l j the deliberalctj; BieaninjtleM p o c m j of the Fulur.
uu. Trans, nou. ' r
4. foKcbnn. Iz xapuckpo! Iroril p. 3M.
5. Ibid., p. 291.
6. F y ^ o r Ty\j(chcv (la<JJ-ld73). a p o o . and Nicholas
Gogol (1809-1852). a niisierof prose f i a i o n and sali/t;
arc mentioned here b c o u s c llieir bolt, use of imasery
o m i o t l)c accounted for by Po":bnya j theory. ShkJovslcy
•i;: MOUEKNISM ANU I'OKMAI.ISM

p a i e d lo a c c e p l t h e p a r a d o x of l h « i m a g i -
W. K. Wimsatt, Jr.
We'aru tapers too, a n d ut our ow.'iu cost die.
n a l i o n llself; e l s e " B e a u t i e , T r u t h , a n d A n d w e e in us finde the Eagle a n d tlie'
R a r i l i e " r e m a i n e n c l o s e d in t h e i r c i n d e r s Dove,
and w e shall end with essential cinders,
for all our pains.
T h e phooiiix ridle halli more wit
By us, w e two being one, are it.
1907-1975
So to one neutrall thing-both suxi'j 111,

APPENDIX
Wo dye a n d rise the same, uiid prove
M y s t e r i o u s by this love.- - Monroe Beardslev
TH£ c a n o n i z a t i o n
Wee can dye by it, if not live by love.
A n d if urifit for tonibes and hearse 1915-
For Godsaks hold your tongue, ; n d lot ihu Our legend bue, it will bo fit for verse:
love. A n d If no peoce of Chronicle wee prove,
Of c h i d e my palsie, or my goul, V^e'll b u i l d In s o n n e t s pretty roomes;
My five gray halres, or ruln'd lorluna noul, Af well a well wrought uriie b e c o m e s
With Wealth your state, y o u : m l n d u witii T h e gr l ealost ashes, as halfe-ucre loinbes. O n o of t h o p r o o i n i n o n t r o p r e s e n t a t i v o s of I h o N o w C r i t i c i s m W K
Arts ImprovB, A n d by lliese h y m n e s , all sluTi a p p r o v e
Us C a n o n l z ' d for Love; W i r n s e I. Jr. t a u g h t el Y a i o U n i v o r s l t y f r o m 1 9 3 9 untU h i , d e a t h H i s
Tal:e you a course, got you a place.
Observe his honour, or his grace. cw[w V r F r r S t y l 0 0 ! S a " 1 U 0 ' Johnson U o i i r S e r a r v
A n d thus invoke us; You w h o m revorond C n l L i i i i i ( W i t h C l o a i i l h B r o o k i , 1 9 5 7 ) , a n d Hato/ul Contraries (19651^
Or the Kings real!, or his stamped face love
Contemplate, what you will, approve, M a d e one unolhers hermitage; an ' ^ b b c l i v o " c 0 r l l t w l b 0 l 0 k ' ? I ^ V e . r l ' a , ' " " t195"1)- W i m s a t t o u t l i n e d
So you will let me love. a n o o j o c i v o c r i t i c i s m In w h i c h t n e c r U . c d i s r e g a r d s b o t h Uio i n l e n
You, to w h o m love was peace, that n o w Is
r-ge; l i o n s of ii.0 p o e t a n d t h e e m o t i o n a l r e a c t i o n s of t h e r e a d e r M o r l r o e

!*' S)vrar hm,or0 Cologa.

Alas, alas, w h o ' s injur'd by my love? B e a r d s l e y h a s t a u g h t p h i l o s o p h y at Yale U n i v e r s i t y . M o u n t H o l y o k e
W h a t merchants ships have my sighs W h o did the w h o l e worlds soule contract,
drown'd? and d r o v e a n d T e m p l e U n i v e r s i t y , H i s w o r k s In-
W h o sales my teares have overflow'd his Into the glasses of your uyus S l n m l r t ? ( .?T 9 , 5 8 ) , A N D A 0 S L H E U C S F R 0 ' n a a s s ' c a ! G r e e c e 10 i t
ground? (So m o d e s u c h mirrors, and j u c h spies. Fal 10cv'' f 1 9 4 9 1 w I r l , 0 1 " l o " l ' o n ' > l / f l | 8 c y " ( 1 9 4 0 ) a n d " T h e A f f e c t i v e
W h e n did my colds u forward spring That thoy did all to you epitomize,)
remove? Countries, Towiius, Courti: U"ig from
W h e n did the lieals which my veiiit's fill above
01 N 0 W C u d d d
A patterne ol your love! j S go b o y o n d , " "" " " " ™ " «
A d d e one more lo the plagule Dill?
Soldiers finde warres, and Lawyers findu out t h n . 'hnn" 1,110 I
"' enlionQl
f a l l a c y " (1940) Wimsatt and Beardsley argue
still t h a t b e c a u s e t h o p o e m Is n o l o n g e r I h o p o o l ' s b u t " b e T o n i 7 t o t h o
UUgious men, w h i c h quarrels move, p u b . i c ^ a n y s e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n of t h e p o o l ' s I n t e n t i o n a s a n a v n n i m
T h o u g h she and I do love. NOTES th0
F 0 0 m 13 S prm. n m S
Call us w h a t you will, wee are m a d e s u c h by on ? ! ni > i M ?QUOrn5'lls
n 1 ox,stonco os a
» oS!lwtla phenome®
love; 1, T h e Hirne c / llm A n r i m i l Mtirine.'.
Call her one, mee another flye, 2. fliograp/iia Lileruria | J 8 1 7 ) , chup. *iv.

43
C o D a
" t e r t , »2"ndd ed.
1 «Studies. A 0 "New
a l s
? l e i and
t York lf; , 9 8 9
-
London:
C o
" t e m p O T
Longman ^^
 • MuULKNiilM /\MJ KJKMAI.J^M
T h e I n t e n t i o n a l Fallacy
I propositions suinmariiied and abstracted
T h e c l a i m of t h e a u t h o r ' s " i n l e i i l i o n "
u p o n the critic's j u d g m e n t has been chal-
l e n g e d in a n u m b e r of r e c e n t d i s c u s s i o n s , 1. A p o e m d o e s n o t c o i n e i n t o e x i s t e n c e
n o t a b l y i n t h e d e b a t e e n t i t l e d T h e Per-
sonal Heresy ( 1 9 3 9 ) , b e t w e e n P r o f e s s o r
L e w i s a n d T i l l y a r d . B u t it s o e i n s d o u b t f u l
If t h i s c l a i m a n d m o s t of its r o m a n t i c
c o r o l l a r i e s a r e a s y e t s u b j e c t to a n y w i d e -
s p r e a d question.ng. T h e present writers.
In a s h o r t a r t i c l e e n t i t l e d " I n t e n t i o n " for a
D i c t i o n a r y 1 of l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m , r a i s e d t h e
i s s u e b u t w e r e u n a b l e to p u r s u e its i m p l i - 2. O n e m u s t a s k h o w a c r i t i c e x p e c t s to
c a t i o n s at a n y l e n g t h . W e a r g u e d t h a t t h e
d e s i g n o r i n t e n t i o n of t h e a u t h o r is n e i t h e r
available nor desirable as a standard, for
j u d g i n g t h e s u c c e s s of a w o r k of literary
art, a n d it s e e m s to u s t h a t t h i s is a
p r i n c i p l e w h i c h g o e s d e e p i n t o s o m a dif-
f e r e n c e s in t h e h i s t o r y of c r i t i c a l a l t i t u d e s .
It is a p r i n c i p l e w h i c h a c c e p t e d or re-
j e c t e d points' t o t h e p o l a r o p p o s i t e s of
c l a s s i c a l " i m i t a t i o n " a n d r o m a n t i c ex-
p r e s s i o n . it e n t a i l s m a n y s p e c i f i c t r u t h s
a b o u t i n s p i r a t i o n , a u t h e n t i c i t y , biog-
r a p h y , literary history a n d scholarship,
a n d a b o u t s o m e t r e n d s of c o n t e m p o r a r y
p o e t r y , e s p e c i a l l y its a l l u s i v e n e s s . T h e r e
U h a r d l y a p r o b l e m of l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m in
w h i c h the critic's a p p r o a c h will not be
q u a l i f i e d b y h i s v i e w of " i n t e n t i o n . "
" I n t e n t i o n , " as w e shall use the term,
c o r r e s p o n d s to vvhal h e i n t e n d e d in u
f o r m u l a w h i c h m-^re o r l e s s e x p l i c i t l y h a s
h a d w i d e a c c e p t a n c e . " I n o r d e r to j u d g e
the poet's p e r f o r m a n c e , w e must know
w h a t h e i n t e n d e d . " I n t e n t i o n is d e s i g n o r
p l a n i n t h e a u t h o r ' s m i n d . I n i u n i i o n hus
o b v i o u s affinities for the author's aitiludu
t o w a r d s h i s w o r k , tlie w u y hu foil, w h u t
m a d e him write.
W e b e g i n o u r d i s c u s s i o n w i t h a series of
to a d e g r e e w h e r e t h e y s o c n i t o . u s axi-
omatic.
b y a c c i d e n t . T h e w o r d s of a p o e m , as
Professor Stoll has r e m a r k e d , c o m e out
of a h e a d , n o t o u t of a h a t . Yet to i n s i s t
o n t h e d e s i g n i n g i n t e l l e c t us a r o u s e of
a p o e m is n o t to g r a n t t h e d e . ign o r
i n t e n t i o n a s a s t a n d a r d ^,y w h i c h t h e
c r i t i c is t o j u d g e t h e w o r t h of t h e p o e t ' s •
performance.
get a n a n s w e r to t h e q u e s t i o n a b o u t
i n t e n t i o n . H o w is h o to liiid o u t w l i u l
t h e p o e t t r i e d to d o ? If t h e p o e t s u c r
c e e d c d i n d o i n g it, t h e n t h e p o o m itself
s h o w s w h a t h o w a s t r y i n g l o d o . A n d if
the poet did hot succnoil. then the
poom is not adequate uvidenco, and
t h e c r i t i c m u s t go o u t s i d o t h e p o e m —
f o r e v i d e n c e of a n i n t e n t i o n t h a t d i d
not b e c o m e effective in the p o e m .
" O n l y o n e caveat m u s t bo b o r n e in
m i n d , " says an eminent intentior.allst'
in u m o m e n t w h e n his theory r e p u d i -
ates itself; " t h e p o e t ' s a i m m u s t ho
j u d g e d at t h e m o m e n t o l t h e c r u a t i v e
a c t , t h a t is to s a y , b y t h e a r t of t h e p o o m
itself."
3. J u d g i n g a p o e m is l i k e J u d g i n g a p u d -
d i n g o r a m a c h i n e . O n e d o m a n d s t h a t it
w o r k . It is o n l y bucuu.^u a n u r t l f u c t
w o r k s t h a t w o i n f e r t h e i n t e n t i o n of an
arlificer. " A poom s h o u l d not mo^n but
b p . " A p o o m can be o n l y t h r o u g h
its n a ' a n i n g — s i n c e its m e d i u m is
w u i J s — y o t it is, s i m p l y is, in tiio s o n s o
thut w u liuvu n o u x c u s o f u r i m i u i r i i i g
w l i u l (juit is i i i l u n d u d ur m o u n t . I ' o o t i y
is a lout of s t y l o by w h i c l i a c o m p l e x of
m o a n i n g is h a n d l e d all at o n c e . P o e t r y
W. K. WIMSATI'. )!(., ANIJ MONKOH lIliAKDUU'lY
45
s u c c c o u s b o c a u s o all o r m o s t o l w h u t Is
U U o r d a b o u t It o r c o n t r o l it). T h e p o e m
s a i d o r i m p l i e d is r e l e v a n t : w h a t is
b e l o n g s lo t h o p u b l i c . U is e m b o d i e d l o
irrelevant has been e x c l u d e d , like
l a n g u a g e , t h e p e c u l i a r p o s s e s s i o n of t l i e
lumps from pudding and "bugs" from
p u b l i c , a n d it is a b o u t t h o h u m a n b e i n g ,
m a c h i n e r y . In this r e s p e c t poetry dif-
a n o b j e c t of p u b l i c k n o w l e d g e . W h a t is
fers f r o m practical messages, w h i c h are
s a i d a b o u t t h e p o o m is s u b j e c t to t h o s a m e
s u c c e s s f u l if a n d o n l y If w o c o r r e c t l y
• s c r u t i n y os a n y s t u t o m o n t I n l i n g u i s t i c s o r
i n f e r t h e ii.tontion. T h o y oro m o r e ab-
i n t h e g e n e r a l s c l o n c e of p s y c h o l o g y .
stract than poetry.
• A c r i t i c of o u r Dictionary a r t i c l e ,
4. T h e m o a n i n g of a p o o m m a y c e r t a i n l y
A n a n d a K. C o o m a r a s w a m y , h a s a r g u e d '
b o a p e r s o n a l o n e , i n t h e s o n s o t h a t a t h a t t h e r e a r c t w o k i n d s of i n q u i r y L b o u t a
p o o m expresses a personolity or state
w o r k of art: (1) w h e t h e r t h o a r t i s t a c h i e v e d
of s o u l r a t i i e r t h a n a p h y s i c a l o b j e c t h i s I n t e n t i o n s ; (2) w h e t h e r t h e w o r k of art
like a n a p p l e . But e v e n a short lyric o u g h t e v e r t o h a v e b o o n u n d e r t a k e n at
p o o m is d r a m a t i c , t h o r e s p o n s e of a a l l " a n d s o " w h e t h e r it is w o r t h p r o s o r v -
• s p e a k e r ( n o m a t t e r h o w a b s t r a c t l y c o n - I n g , " N u m b e r (2), C o o m a r a s w a m y m a i n -
c e i v e d ) to a .' i t u a t i o n ( n o m a t t e r h o w
t a i n s , is n o t " c r i t i c i s m of a n y w o r k of a r t
u n i v e r s a l i z e d ) . W e o u g h t to i m p u t e t h o
q u a w o r k of a r t , " b u t i s . r a t h e r m o r a l
• t n o M g h t s a n d a t t l l u d e s of t h e p o o m
c r i t i c i s m ; n u m b e r (1) is a r t i s t i c c r i t i c i s m .
i m m e d i o t o l y to t h e d r a m a t i c s p e a k e r ,
O u t w j , m a i n t a i n t h a t (2) n o o d n o t b a
a n d If t o t h o a u t h o r at a l l , o n l y b y a n
, m o r a l c r i t i c i s m ; t h a t t h e r e is a n o t h e r w a y
a c t of b i o g r a p h i c a l i n f e r e n c e .
of d e c i d i n g w h e t h e r w o r k s of a r t a r e
5. T h e r e is a s e n s e In w h l c l i o n a u t h o r , b y
wortli p r e s e r v i n g a n d w h e t h e r , in a s e n s e ,
revision, m a y better achieve his origi-
they "ought" l a have beon undertaken,
n a l I n t e n t o n . O u t it Is js v e r y a b s t r a c t :
, a n d t h i s is t h o w a y of o b j e c t i v e c r i t i c i s m
s e n s e . Ho i n t e n d e d to writo a b e l t e r .
of w o r k s of a r t a s s u c h . t h e w a y w h i c h
w o r k , o r a b o t t o r w o r k of Q c o r t a l n k i n d ,
•onablos us to d i s t i n g u i s h b o t w o o n a skilful
a n d n o w h u s d o n e It. B u t it f o l l o w s t h a t
m u r d e r a n d a skilful poom, A skilful m u r -
his,former concroto Intention was not
- c ' e r Is a n e x a m p l e w h i c h C o o m a r a s v y a m y
his intention, "He's the m a n w e wore
•. u s e s , a n d i n h i s s y s t e m t h o d i f f e r e n c e
in sourch of, that's t r u e , " says H o r d y ' s
• . b o t w o o n m u r d e r a n d t h e p o o m Is s i m p l y a
rustic constable, " a n d yet he's not the
. ' . ' m o r a l " o n e , n o t q n " a r t l s » i c " ono, s i n c e
m a n w o w e r e i n s e a r c h of. F o r t h o m a n •
; e a c h if c a r r i e d o u t a c c o r d i n g to p l a n Is
w e w o r e In s e a r c h of w a s n o t t h e m o n
wo wanted." •"artistically" successful. We maintain
t h a t (2) Is a n i n q u i r y of m o r o w o r t h t h a n
U ) , a n d s i n c e (2) a n d n o t (1) is c a p a b l e of
'is not a c r i t i c , " asks P r o f e s s o r Stoll, " a
distinguishing poetry from murder, the
J u d g e , w h o d o e s not e x p l o r o h i s o w n
n a m o " a r t i s t i c c r i t i c i s m " Is p r o p o r l y g i v e n
c o n s c i o u s n o s s , b u t d o t o r n i l n u s tiiu u u -
I h o r ' s m o u n i i i y o r I n l o n t i o i . . us If t h e p o o m
w e r e a will, u contract, or tho c o n s t i -
t u t i o n ? T h o p o o m is n o t t h o c r i t i c ' s o w n . "
H o h u s u c c u r u t o l y diugiiosud t w o f o r m s of
I r r o s p o n s l b i i i t y , o u o of w h i c h liu p r o f u r s .
It is nut 60 m u c i l u hi.slurlcui stiituuiunt us
O u r v i u w is yot d i f f u i u i i t . T h o p u o i n U n u t
u i l o l i u l i l o n tu s u y tiiut tlio I n t u n t i o n u l
t h e c r i t i c ' s o w n uiid n u t t h u u u t h o r ' s (it Is •
f u l l u c y is u r o n i u n l l c o n u . W h o n u r h o t o r l -
d o t a c h o d f r o m t h o a u t h o r at b i r t h a n d g o e s
c l a n of t h e first c e n t u r y a . o . w r i t e s : " S u b -
a b o u t t h o w o r l d b e y o n d h i s p o w e r to
l l m i t y is t h e e c h o of a groat s o u l , " or w h o n

he tells u s t h a t " H o m e r e n l e r s iiUo Uie
s u b l i m e a c t i o n s of h i s h e r o e s " a n d
" s h a r e s t h e f u l l I n s p i r a l i o n of t h e c o m -
b a t , " w e s h a l l not b e s u r p i i s e d lo find this
r h e t o r i c i a n c o n s i d e r e d as a d i s t a n t h a r b i n -
ger of r o m a n t i c i s m a n d g r e e t e d in t h e
w a r m e s t t e r m s by S a i n t s b u r y . O n e m a y
w i s h to a r g u e w h e t h e r L o n g i n u s s h o u l d
be called romantic, but there can hardly
b e a d o u b t t h a t in o n e i m p o r t a n t w a y h e
is.
G o e t h e ' s t h r e e q u e s t i o n s for " c o n s t r u c -
t i v e c r i t i c i s m " are " W h a t d i d t h e a u t h o r
set o u t to do7 W a s h i s p l a n r e a s o n a b l e a n d
s e n s i b l e , a n d h o w far d i d h e s u c c e e d in
c a r r y i n g It o u t ? " If o n e leaves o u t t h e
m i d d l e q u e s t i o n , o n e h a s In effect t h e .
s y s t e m of C r o c e — t h e c u l m i n a t i o n a n d
c r o w n i n g p h i l o s o p h i c e x p r e s s i o n of ro-
m a n t i c i s m . T h e b e a u t i f u l is the succ<.jsful
i n t u i t i o n - e x p r e s s i o n , a n d t h e u g l y Is t h e
u n s u c c e s s f u l ; t h e I n t u i t i o n or p r i v a t e part
of art is the a e s t h e t i c fact, a n d t h e m e d i u m
o r p u b l i c p a r t Is n o t t h e s u b j e c t of a o j -
thetlC'at all.
The Madonna of Cimabue is slill in the
Church of Santa Maria Novella: but does she
tpeak to the visitor of today as to the Floren-
tinei of th9 thlrteenlh century?
Historical inlerprelolion labours . . . to
rnlntegrale In us the psychological condi-
Uoas which have changed in tlie course o[
history. It. , . enables us to see a work of art
(s physical object) as Us author soiv it In the
moment of production. 4
T h e first Italics are C r o c e ' s , the s e c o n d
o u r s . T h e u p s h o t of C r o c e ' s s y s t e m Is a n
m b l g u o u s e m p h a s i s on history. With
- s u c h p a s s a g e s as a p o i n t of d e p a r t u r e a
critic m a y w r i t e a nico u n u l y s i s of the
m e a n i n g or " s p i r i t " of a play by Sliuko-
s p e a i e or C o r n e l l l r — a p r o c e s s t h a t In-
volves close historical study but remains
a e s t h e t i c c r i t i c i s m — o r h e m a y , witl»
e q u a l p l a u s i b i l i t y , p r o d u c e un ussuy i i r
s o c i o l o g y , b i o g r a p h y , o r o t h e r k i n d s of
non-aesthetic history.
iMUULiUVloM /vi^J ('UKi\iAutui>t
ill
I went to the pools; Irugic. dilliyranibic, uiid
ell sorts. , . , 1 took thum soma of the most
elaborate pasfages In their o w n , writings,
and asked what was the meaning ol
tliem. . . , Will you bellave rne? . . . there
Is hardly a person present who would not
have talked belter about t h e i r poetry ihan
they did themsolves. T h e n I know tlial not
by wisdom do poots write poetry, but by a
sort of genius and inspiration.
T h a t r e i t e r a t e d m i s t r u s t of t h e p o o l s
w h i c h we hear from Socrates m a y have
b e e n p a r t of a r i g o r o u s l y a s c o t l c v i e w In
w h i c h w e h a r d l y w i s h to p a r t i c i p a t e , yet
Plato' l s S o c r a t e s s a w a t r u t h a b o u t t h e po-
etic i n l n d w h i c h t h e w o r l d n o l o n g e r c o m -
m o n l y sues—so m u c h criticism, a n d that
the ^ o s t inspirational a n d most affec-
tionately remembered, has proceeded
from the poets themselves.
C e r t a i n l y the p o o t s h a v e h a d s o m e t h i n g '
to s a y t h a t t h e c r i t i c a n d p r o f e s s o r c o u l d
not say; t h e i r m e s s a g e h a s b e e n m o r e
e x c i t i n g : that p o e t r y s h o u l d c o m e as n a t u -
rally as leaves to a t r e e , t h a t p o e t r y Is the
lava of t h e i m a g i n a t i o n , o r t h a t it is e m o -
t i o n r e c o l l e c t e d in t r a n q u i l l i t y , B u t it Is
necessary that wo realize the character
a n d a p t h o r l t y of s u c h t e s t i m o n y . T h e r e Is
o n l y a fine shiide of d i f f e r o : i c o b o t w e o n
s u c h e x p r e s s i o n s a n d a k i n d of e a r n e s t
a d v i c e that a u t h o r s o f t e n give. T h u s Ed-
w a r d Y o u n g , C u r l y l e , W a l t e r Pater;
1 know Iv^-o golden rules from ethics, whicli
uro nu loss golduii In Culll|)o^llio^, tliuii In
life. 1. Know l l i y s a l f ; 2dly, licvuruiico lliy-
sol/, Tills is tho grand sucrvl fur finding
ruudurs uiid rutuliilng thum: let hlin who
would move und convince others, bu first
moved and convinced hlm-self. Hoiace's
rule, Si vis me /Ittre r ls applicable In a wider
sense than tlie literal one. To every poat, to
uvury writiir, wu might suy; llu truii, If yuii
would bu bulluvud.
Truth! there can be no niurlt. no craft ut
all. without that. A n d further, all beauty Is
>V. I\. W l w i a A l r, |K., ANU MUNKUK IIMAKD.SI.KY
47
In the long run only /Inuness of truth, or
what we call expression, tho finer accommo- . d i f f e r e n t f r o m tho p u b l i c art of e v a l u a t i n g
. datlon of speech to that vision w i t h i n . ;., i ' • ' . . p o e m s . •
; "v C o l o r i d g e a n d A r n o l d w e r e b e t t e r c r i t i c s
, ( A n d H o u s n i a n ' s l i t U o h a V d b o o k ' l i o : t h ' o t h a n , m o s t p o o t s h a v e b e e n , a n d if. t h a \ .
pobtic m i n d yields this lljusiratlonV ...critical t e n d e n c y d r i e d u p t h e p o e t r y in ^
Having d r u n k a pint of buur ut luncheon A r n o l d a n d p e r h a p s i n C o l e r i d g e , it Is n o t
1 boor Is a sodativu lo |hu brala,' and my • j n c o n s i s t o n t w i t h o u r a r g u m e n ' . , w h i c h i s
afternoons are the least intelloctual portion V t h a t J u d g m e n t of p o e m s Is d i f f e r e n t f r o m
of m y life—I would go out for a walk of two t h e art of p r o d u c i n g them.. C o l e r l d g o h a s
o r three hours. As I went along,.lhInklng of g i v e n u s t h e c l a s s i c " a n o d y n e " s t o r y , a n d
nothing in particular, only looking at things
a r o u n d m e and following the progress of the t e l l s w h a t h e c a n a b o u t t h e g e n e s i s of a
seasons, there would flow Into my m | n d , p o e m w h i c h h e c a l l s a " p s y c h o l o g i c a l
w i t h s u d d e n and unvccounlable eu'-olion, c u r i o s i t y , " b u t h i s d o f i n l t i o n s of p o e t r y
sometimas a llnr or two of verse, someilmos a n d of t h o p o e t i c q u a l i t y " I m a g i n a t i o n "
a w h o l e stanza at onco. a r o to bo f o u n d e l s e w h e r e a n d in q u i t e
other terms.
T h i s is t h o logical t e r m i n u s of Iho s e r i e s
It w o u l d bo c o n v e n i e n t If the. p a s s w o r d s
a l r e a d y q u o t e d . H e r o is a c o n f e s s i o n of
of t h e i n t e n t i o n a l s c h o o l , " s i n c e r i t y , "
h o w p o e m s were wrtllon wiiidi would do
"fidollty," "spontunoily," "aulhonllclly,"
OS a d o f i t i l l l o n of p o o l r y Just us w e l l us
"BuiiuJnonoss," "originality," could bo
e m o t i o n r e c o l l e c t e d In t r a n q u i l l i t y " - —
e q u a t e d w i t h t e r m s s u c h as " i n t e g r i t y "
a n d w h i c h tho young poet might equolly
"relevance," "unity," "function," "matu-
w e l l t a k e to h e a r t as a p r a c t i c a l r u l e . D r i n k
rity.'l " s u b t l e t y , " " a d e q u a c y , " a n d o t h e r
a p i n t of b e e r , relax, go w a l k i n g , t h i n k o n
m o r e p r e c i s e t e r m s of e v a l u a t i o n — i n
n o t h i n g in p a r t i c u l a r , l o o k at t h i n g s , s u r -
s h o r t , if e x p r e s s i o n " a h v a v s m e a n t a e s -
r e n d e r y o u r s e l f to y o u r s e l f , s o u r c h for tho
t h e t i c a c h i e v e m e n t . Uut this i j not so.
t r u t h in y o u r o w n s o u l , l i s t e n lo t h e s o u n d
" A o s l h o t l c " art, s a y s P r o f e s s o r C u r t D u -
of y n u r o w n i n s i d e v o i c e , d i s c o v e r a n d
c a s s e , a n I n g e n i o u s t h e o r i s t of e x p - e s s i o n ,
e x p r e s s t h e vraie v d i i ^ [ " t r u e t r u t h " ) .
Is t h e c o n s c i o u s o b j e c t l f i c a t i o n of feelings,'
It is p r o b a b l y t r u e t h a t all t h i s is e x c e l -
in w h i c h a n I n t r i n s i c part is the c r i t i c a l
l e n t a d v i c e for p o e t s , T h o y o u n g i m a g i n a -
m o m e n t . T h o a r t i s t ccirrocls tlie o b j e c t i f i -
tion fired by W o r d s w o r t i i a n d C a r l y l e Is
c a t i o n w h e n It is n o t a d e q u a t e . But t h i s
p r o b a b l y c l o s e r lo ihe v e r g e of p r o d u c i n g
n i a y m e a n t h a t tlie e a r l i e r a t t e m p t w a s n o t
0 p o o n i l i m n llie m i n d of llio s t u d e n t w h o
s u c c e s s f u l In o b j e c t i f y i n g llie self, or " i i
h a s b e e n s o b e r e d by A r i s l o t l o o r K i c h a r d n .
niny a l s o m e a n t h a t It w a s a s u c c e s s f u l
T h e art of i n s p i r i n g p o e t s , o r at loast of
o b j o c l i f i c o l i o n of o self w h i c h , w h e n it
I n c i t i n g s o m e l h l n g like p o e l r y In y o u n u
c o n f r o n t u d us d o u r l y , wo disowned a n d
p e r s o n s , liiis p r u b u b l y g o n e f u r l h o r in o u r
r e p u d i u l o d In f a v o u r of unotlier." 0 W h a t is
Hay lliuii o v e r b e f o r e , IJouks of urunlivu
111" sluiivlurd by w h i c h wu d i s o w n or a c -
w r i l l n g s u c h us lluise I s s u e d friiin Ihit
cept thu s o i l ? I ' r u f o s s u r Uucussu d o e s n o t
l - l n c o l i . S c h o o l ure i n l o r o s l i n g e v i d e n c o of
l a y , W h u t o v e r It m u y be, h o w e - e r , t h i s
w h a t a c h i l d can do.' All this, h o w e v e r ,
s t a n d a r d Is a n o l o m e n t In t h e d e f i n i t i o n of
w o u l d a p p e a r to b e l o n g to ar. art s e p a r a t o
art w h i c h w i l l n o t r e d u c e to terrhs of
f r o m c r i t i c i s n i — l o u psycliologlciil (Usui-
ob)ui:l|fli;iitlon. T l u i uviilutilluii uf tho w o r k
p l l n u , II .sysUini (if s u l f - d o v u l o p m u i i l , u
of ml" I'uinulns p u b l i c ; thu w o r k Is n i o a -
yoga, whicli tho young poet porliups does
surod against somolhing outside the
w e l l to n o t i c j , but w h i c h is s o m o l h i n g a u t h o r .
 48 MOUliKNlAM AN.J rUiM^lAl.i i.-io. k I I, ,is., luSU tStxJiNtvWw

a n d (3), s h a d e i n t o o n e a n o t h e r sp s u b t l y atod i n tho D i o g r a p h i a ) m a y not bo as- m e l t s a w a y c o n t e x t — o r i n d e e d w o s h o u l d

IV
t h a t it is n o t a l w a y s e a s y lo d r a w a l i n o s e n t e d lo, T h e r e W e r e c e r t a i n l y o t h o r n ^ v e r h a v e o b j e c t s o r I d e a s o r a n y t h i n g t o
T h e r e is c r i t i c i s m of p o e l r y a n d t h e r e is b e t w e e n e x a m p l e s , a n d h e n c e a r i s e s t h e combinations, other p o e m s , worso or bat- . talk about.
a u t h o r p s y c h o l o g y , w h i c h . w h e n a p p l i e d d i f f i c u l t y f o r c r i t i c i s m . T h o u s e of b i o - tor, t h a t m i g h t h a v e b e e n w r i t t e n b y m e n It Is p r o b a b l e t h a t t h e r e Is n o t h i n g i a
l o t h e p r e s e n t o r f u t u r e t a k e s t h e f o r m of g r a p h i c a l e v i d e n c e n e e d n o t i n v o l v e whowhad road Dartram a n d Purchos a n d Professor L o w e s ' vast b o o k w h i c h c o u l d
I n s p i r a t i o n a l p r o m o t i o n : b u t a u t l i o r p s y - i n t e n t i o n a l i s m , b o c a u s o w h i l o It m a y b e D r u c e a n d M i l t o n . A n d t h i s w i l l b o t r u o n o d o l r u c l f r o m u n y o n o ' s u p p r e c l a i l o n of o l -
c h o l o g y c a n b e h i s t o r i c a l loo, a n d t h e n w e e v i d e n c e of w h a t llio a u t h o r I n t o n d o d , it " l a t t e r h o w m a n y l l m o s w o u r o u b l o lo a d d t h o r T l i o A i i c i u n l M a r i i w r o r " K u b l u
h a v e l i t e r a r y b i o g i a p h y , a l o g i t i m a l e a n d m a y a l s o b o o v i d o n c o o f t h e m o a n i n g of t o t h e b r i l l i a n t c u i u p l o x of C o l u r i d g o ' s K h u n . " W o n o x l p r e s e n t u c u s o w l i o r o
a t t i a c t i v e s t u d y i n i t s e l f , o n e a p p r o a c h , a s h i s w o r d s o n d t h e d r a m a l l c c h a r a c t e r of r e a d i n g . In c e r t a i n f l o u r i s h e s (sucli a s t h o p r o o c c u p a l l o n w i t h e v i d e n c e of t y p e (3)
P r o f e s s o r T i l l y a r d w o u l d a r g u e , t o p e r s o n - h i s u t t e r a n c e . O n t h e o t h e r h a n d , it m a y s e n t e n c e w o h a v o q u o t e d ) a n d In d h a p t o r h a s g o n e s o f a r a s t o d i s t o r t a c r i t i c ' s v i e w
a l i l y , t h e p o e m b e i n g o n l y a p a r a l l e l a p - n o t b e a i r t h i s . A n d a c r i t i c w h o is c o n - h e a d i n g s l i k e " T h e S h a p i n g S p l r l l , " " T h e of a p o e m ( y e t a c a s e n o t s o o b v i o u s a s
p r o a c h . C e r t a i n l y it n e e d not b e w i t h a c e r n e d w i t h e v i d e n c e of t y p o ( l ) a n d m o d - Magical S y n t h e s i s , " ''Imagination Crea- those that a b o u n d in o u r critical journals).
d e r o g a t o r y p u r p o s e t h a t o n e p o i n t s o u t e r a t e l y w i t h t h a t of t y p e (3) w i l l in >ho t r i x , " it m a y b e t h a t P r o f e s s o r L o w e s p r o - In. a w e l l - k n o w n p o e m b y J o h n D o n n e
p e r s o n a l s t u d i e s , a s d i s t i n c t f r o m p o e t i c l o n g r u n p r o d u c e a d i f f e r e n t s o r t of c o m - l e n d s lo s a y m o r e a b o u t t h e a c t u a l p o e m s ("A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning")
s t u d i e s , In t h e r e a l m o( l i t e r a r y s c h o l a r - m e n t f r o m t h a t of t h e c r i t i c w h o is c o n - t h a n h e d o e s . T h o r o is a c o r t a l n d o c e p * a p p e a r s t h i s q u a t r a i n ;
s h i p . Y e t t h e r e Is d a n g o r of c o n t u s i n g c e r n e d w i t h (2) o n d w i t h (3) w h o r e it l i v e v a r i a t i o n i n I h e s o f a n c y d i o p t e r titlos; ,
p e r s o n a l a n d p o e t i c s t u d i e s ; a n d t h u r o is s h a d e s i n t o (2). o n o e x p e c t s lo p a s s o n lo u n o w s l u g o ' M o v i i i y of III' uurlli briiiuii l i u n i i u s u i i d
t h e f a u l t of w r i t i n g t h e p e r s o n a l as if it T h e w h o l o g l i t l o r i n g p a r a d e of P r o f o s s u r i n t h o a r g u m e n t , a n d o n o finds—inoru fuurus,
were poetic. L o w e s ' R o a d to X a n a d u , f o r I n s t a n c e , and more sourcos, more and more aboul M o n reckon whut it did a n d m e a n t ,
T h e r e is a d i f f e r e n c e b o l w u o n intoi-nal r u n s a l o n g t h e b o r d e r b e t w e e n t y p e s (2) " t h e s t r e a m y n u t u r o of u . s s o c l a l l o n . ' " ' D'lt tropidutluu o( till) sphuur is,
a n d e x t e r n a l e v i d e n c e for t h e m e a n i n g of a a n d (3) o r b o l d l y t r a v e r s e s t h e r c m a a t i c " W o h i n dor Wog?" quotes Professor ' l b b l ' u u g l i grtiulur f u r r u , lit i n a u t u i i l .
:
p o e m . A n d t h e p a r a d o x is o n l y v e r b a l a n d r e g i o n of (2). " ' K u b l a K h a n , ' " s a y s P r o - L o w e s f o r t h o m o t i o of h i s b o o k . " K o l r
s u p e r f i c i a l t h a t w h a t is (1) i n t e r n a l is a l s o f e s s o r L o w u s , " i s a f o b r i c of a v i s i o n , b u t W o g ! i n s U n b e l r o t e n o . " P r e c i s e l y b o c a u s o A r e c o n t c r i t i c in a n e l a b o r a t e t r o a t m o n , of
p u b l i c : it is i - i s c o v e r e d t h r o u g h t n e se- e v e r y i m a g e t h a t r o s e u p in its w e a v i n g t h o w a y is u n b o l r e l e n w o s h o u l d s a y , it D o n n e ' s l e a r n i n g h a s w r i t t e n of t h i s
m a n t i c s a n d s y n t a x of a p o e m , t h r o u g h h a d p a s s e d t h a t w a y b e f o r e . A n d it w o u l d leads away from tho poem. Bartram's quatrain as follows:
o u r h a b i t u a l k i i o w l e d g o of t h o l a n g u a g e , s e e m t h a i t h e r o is n o l l i i n g liuphaz.'ird o r T r a v e l s c o n t a i n a g o o d d a a i of tiio h i s t o r y
of c e r t a i n w o r d s u n d of c o r t a l n r o m a n t i c llu tuuelios tliu iiinoliuiiul pu so of ll 'j silua-
t h r o u g h g r a m m a r s , d i c t i o n a r i e s , o n d ull ( o r l u i t o u s ill t h e i r r o l u r i i , " T h i s is n o t tlun b / u skilful ulluiiloii tu tliu iiuw utid iho
t h e l i t e r a t u r e w h i c h is t h e s o u r c e of d i c - q u i t e c l e a r — n o t o v e n w h e n I ' r o f e s s o r F l o r i d i a n c o n c e p t i o n s t h a t a p p e a r In " K u - old a s t r o n o m y . . . . O f tliu iiuw u s t r o a o m y ,
t i o n a r i e s , i n g e n e r a l t h r o u g h all t h a t L o w e s e x p l a i i s t h a t t h e r e w e r e c l u s t e r s of b l a K h a n . " A n d a g o o d d e a l of t h a t h i s t o r y a n d " m o v i n g of the e a r t h " is'the m o s t radi-
makes a language a n d culture; w h i l e w h a t associations, liko h o o k e d atoms, w h i c h has passed a n d w a s t h e n possing Into tho cal p r i n c i p l e ; of the old, the " t r e p i d a t i o n of
v o r y stuff of o u r l a n g u a g e . P e r h a p s a p e r - the s p h e r e s " is the m o t i o n of the greatest
is (2) e x t e r n a l is p r i v a t e o r I d i o s y n c r a t i c ; w o r e d r a w n i n t o c o m p l u x r e l a t i o n w i t h c o m p l e x i t y . . . , T h e poet m u s t exhort his
not a p a r t of t h o w o r k as a l i n g u ! "tic fact; it o t h e r c l u s t e r s i n t h e d e e p w e l l of C o l o - son w h o has read Barlram approclales tho
love to q u i e t n e s s a n d c a l m u p o n h i i d e p a r -
c o n s i s t s of- r e v e l a t i o n s (in j o u r n a l s , ' f o r r i d g e ' s m e m o r y , a n d w ' n i c h t h e n c o - p o e m more t h a n ono w h o has not. Or, by lure; o n d for this p u r p o s e the figura b a t e d ,
e x a m p l e , o r l e t t e r s or. r e p o r t e d c o n v e r s a - a l e s c e d a n d i s s u e d f o r l l ' a s p o e m s . If l o o k i n g u p t h o v o c a b u l a r y of ' ' K u b l a u p o n t h e latter m o t i o n (trupidutiou), lon^
t i o n s ) a b o u l h o w o r w h y tho p o e t w r o t e t h e r e w a s n o t h i n g " h u p h n ' / . a r d or f o r t u i - K h a n " in t h o O x f o r d E n g l f s i i D i c H o n a r y , a b s o r b e d Into the Iraditlonul astroiioiuy, fit-
t h e p o e m — l o w h a t l a d y , w h i l e s i t t i n g o n t o u s " In t h o w a y t h e I m a g e s r e t u r n e d t o o r b y r e a d i n g s o m e of t h o o t h o r b o o k s - llngly suggests t h e tension cf. t h e m o m e n t
r
w h a t l a w n , o r at t h e d e a t h of w h a t f r i e n d t h o s u r f a c e , t h a t m a y m o a n (1) t h a t C o l o - t h e r e q u o t e d , a p e r s o n m a y k n o w iho'C' :>• w i t h o u t a r o u s i n g tlie " h a r m e s a n d f e a n s s "
o r b r o t h e r . T h e r e is (3) a n i n t e r m o d i o t o r i d g e c o u l d n o t p r o d u c e w h a t h o d i d n o t p o e m b e t t o r . O u t it w o u l d s o o m lo p o r l u i u f •,I inipllclt '
in tho figure of the m o v i n g e a r t h . '
1
k i n d of e v i d e n c e a b o u t tho c h a r a c l o r of h a v e , t h o t h o w u s I h n i l e d in h i s c r e a t i o n J i l l l e lo I h e p o u n i to. k n o w I h u l Coloritlgu ;.: T h u u r g u n i o n l Is p l u u s j b l u a n d r o s l s o n a
t h e a u t h o r o r a b o u t p r i v a t e or s e m i - p r i v a t e b y w h a t h e h a d r o a d o r o t h o r w i s o e x p e r i - h a s r o a d B u - l r u n i . T h u r u is.u g r o s s b o d y of"' w o l l s u b s t u u t i u l o d t i i e s l s t h a t D o n n o w a s
m e a n i n g s a t t a c h e d to w o r d s o r t o p i c s b y e n c e d , o r (2) t h a t h a v i n g r o c e l v e d c e r t a i n l l f o , of s e n s o r y a n d m e n t a l o x p o r l o n c o , ' ! d e e p l y I n t o r o s t o d i n t h e n o w a s t r o n o m y
a n a u t h o r o r b y a c o t e r i e of w h i c h h e is a c l u s t e r s of a s s o c i a t i o n s , h o w a s b o u n d l o w h i c h lies b e h i n d a n d i n s o m o s e n s e * a n d i t s r e p e r c u s s i o n s i n t h e t h e o l o g i c a l
m e m b e r . T h e m e a n i n g of w o r d s is t h e r e t u r n t h e m i n j u s t t h e w a y h e d i d , a n d c a u s e s e v e r y p o e m , b u t c a n n e v e r b o and.;' r e a l m . I n v a r i o u s w o r k s D o n n e s h o w s h i s
h i s t o r y o l w o r d s , a n d t h o b i o g r a p h y of o n tliat tho v a l u e of t h e p o e m m a y b o d e - n e e d n o t bo k n o w n In t h o v e r b a l , o n d f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h K e p l e r ' s Do S t e l l a N o v a ,
a u t h o r , h i s u s o of a w o r d , a n d t h o a s s o c i a - s c r i b e d in l e r u i s o( t h o o x p e r i c n c u s o n l i u n c o I n l e l l u c t u i i l c u i n p o s l t i u n 'wlilcli Is w i t h L i u l l l o o ' s S i i i u r i u s N u i i c l i i s , w l l l i
U o n s w h i c h t h e w o r d h a d for h i m , a r e p a r t w h i c h h e h a d t o d r a w . T h o l a t t e r p a i r of t h o p o e m . Kor ull t h o u b j e u t s of o u r m a n i - W l l l l u n i G l l b o r t ' s Du M a g n u l a , a n d w i t h
of t h e w o r d ' s h i s t o r y a n d m o a n i n g . ' C u t p r o p o s i t i o n s (a s o r t of H a r t l e y u n o s s o c i a - f o l d o x p e r i o n c o , f o r e v e r y u n i t y , t h o r o Is C l a v l u s * c o m m e n t a r y o n t h e Dg S p h a e r u
t h o t h r e e t y p e s of e v l d o n c o , e s p e c i a l l y (2) t l o n i s m w l i i c h C o l e r i d g e h i m s e l l r e 1 j u d i - a n a c t i o n of t h o m i n d w h i c h c u t s off r o o t s , of S a c r o b o s c o . H e r e f e r s l o t h e n e w s c i -
50
e n c e i n h i s S e r m o n at P a u l ' s C r o s s a n d in
a l e t t e r to S i r H e n r y G o o d y e r . In t h e F i r s t
Anniversary he says the " n e w philosophy
c a l l s i n d o u b t . " In t h e E l e g y o n P r i n c e
H e n i y h e s a y s t h a t t h e " l e a s t m o v i n g of
t h e c e n t r e " m a k e s " t h o w o r l d lo s h a k o . "
It 1$ d i f f i c u l t to a n s w e r a r g u m e n t l i k e
t h i s , a n d i m p o s s i b l e lo a n s w u r i, w i i l i
e v i d e n c e of l i k e n a t u r e . T h e r e is n o r e a s o n
w h y D o n n e might not have written a
s t a n z a in w h i c h t h e t w o k i n d s of c e l e s t i a l
m o t i o n s t o o d f o r t w o s o r t s of e m o t i o n at
p a r t i n g . A n d if w e b e c o m e f u l l of a s t r o -
n o m i c a l ideas and see Donno only against
t h e b a c k g r o u n d of t h e n e w s c i e n c e , w e
m a y b e l i e v e t h u t h e d i d . B u t t h e t e x t itself
r e m a i n s to b e d e a l t w i t h , t h e a n a l y s a b l e
v e h i c l e of a c o m p l i c a t e d m e t a p h o r . A n d
o n e m a y o b s e r v e : (1) t h a t t h e m o v e m e n t of
t h e e a r t h a c c o r d i n g lo t h e Coper,v;ir.an
t h e o r y Is a c e l e s t i a l m o t i o n , s m o o i n ' a n d
regular, and while U might cause .eligious
o r p h i l o s o p h i c f e a r s , it c o u l d n o t b e a s s o -
c i a t e d w i t h t h e c r u d i t y a n d e a r t h i n e s s of
t h e k i n d of c o m m o t i o n w h i c h t h e s p e a k e r
in t h e p o e m w i s h s to d i s c o u r a g e ; (2) t h a t
t h e r e is a n o t h e r m o v i n g of t h e e a r t h , a n
e a r t h q u a k e , w h i c h has just ihose qualities
a n d is lo b e a s s o c i a t e d w i t h t h e t e a r - f l o o d s
a n d s i g h - t f e m p e s t s of t h e s e c o n d s t a n z a of
t h e p o e m ; (3) t h a t " t r e p i d a t i o n " is a n
a p p r o p r i a t e o p p o s i t e of e a r t h q u a k e , be-
c a u s e e a c h is a s h a k i n g o r v i b r a t o r y m o -
t i o n ; a n d " t r e p i d a t i o n of t h e s p h e r e s " is
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c o m p a r e d a s lo grei.tness) t h a n t h e a n n u a l
m o t i o n of t h e e a r t h ; (4) t h a t r e c k o n i n g
w h a t ll " d i d a n d m e a n t " s h o w s t h a t ilio
e v e n t has p a s s e d , like an e a r t h q u a k e , not
l i k e t h e I n c e s s a n t c e l e s t i a l m o v e m e n t of
t h e e a r t h . P e r h a p s a k n o w l e d g e of D o n n e ' s
I n t e r e s t in t h e n e w s c i e n c e m a y a d d a n -
o t h e r s h a d e of m o a n i n g , a n o v e r t o n e to t h e
s t a n z a In q u o s t i o n , t h o u g h lo suy y vuii t h i s
r u a s a g a i n s t t h e w o r d s . T o m a k e t h e guo-
centric and heliocentric antithesis the
c o r e of t h e m e t a p h o r is to d i s r e g a r d t h o
MCJULKNI^NI / \ I \ I I
E n g l i s h l a n g u a g e , to p r e f e r p r i v a t e evi-
d e n c e to p u b l i c , e x t e r n a l to i n t e r n a l .
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d o n e e h a s i m p l i c a t i o n s f o r tlu) h i s t o r i c a l
critic, it h a s t h o r n n o loss for t h o c o n t e m -
porary poot a n d his critic. Or, s i n c e every
r u l e f o r a p o e t is b u t a n o t h e r s i d e of a
j u d g m e n t b y a c r i t i c , a n d s i n c e t h e p a s t is
t h e r o a h n of t h e s c h o l a r a n d c r i t i c , a n d t h o
f u t u r e a n d p r e s e n t t h a t of t h o p o o l a n d t h r
c r i t i c a l l e a d e r s of t a s t e , w e m a y s a y t h a t
the p r o b l e m s arising in literary scholar-
ship f r o m tho i n t e n t i o n a l fallacy aro
m a t c h e d b y o t h e r s , w h i c h a r i s e In t h o
world or progressive exporimonl.
T h o q u o s t i o n of " a l l u s i v e n e s s , " f o r ex-
a m p l e , a s a c u t e l y , p o s e d b y t h e p o e t r y of
Eliot, Is c e r t a i n l y o n e w h e r e a f a l s e j u d g -
ment:' is l i k e l y to I n v o l v e t h e I n t e n t i o n a l
f a l l a c y . T h e f r e q u e n c y a n d d e p t h of l i t e r -
ary a l l u s i o n i n t h e p o e t r y of E l i o ' a i i d
o t h e r s h a s d r i v e n ^o m a n y in p u r s u i t of
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t h e Eli'-cabothan d r a m a t h a t it h a s b u c o n i u
a k i n d of c o m m o n p l a c e to s u p p o s e t h a t
wo do not k n o w w h a t a poet m e a n s u n l e s s
w o Have I r a c o d h i m in h i s r e a d i n g — n
supposition redolent w i t h intentional im-
p l i c f l l i o n s . T h e s t a n d t a k e n by F, 0 .
M a t t h i u s s o n is u s o u n d o n e a n d p a r t i a l l y
furBStalls t h e d i f f i c u l t y .
U 0110 r u a d s I h u s o w i t l i uii u l t o u l i v u onr u:id
is s o n s i l i v o lo lliolr s u i i d u i i i l i l f l s In m o v u -
muiil. lliu cuiUrunt b u l w u f i i lliu iioluul
T h u t i i u s uiid lliu l i i u u l U o J v i s l u n ul U d u r -
ln(j uii ugo b o l o r o it ( l o w e d Ihruuijli u mut;u-
l o p o l i s is s h a r p l y c o n v u y u d by t h a t m o v e -
m e n t i t s e l f , w h a t h o r or not o n e r o c o t ; n t z o s
the r e f r a i n lo bo f r o m SpoiisLT.
iiliut's u l l u s i u i i a w o r k wluiii w u k n o w
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we do not k n o w them, through their sug-
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B u t s o m e t i m e s w e f i n d a l l u s i o n s s u p - w a t e r — I s " b a l l a d . " A n d if o n e s h o u l d f e e l
p o r t e d b y n o l p s , a i . d ll Is a n i c e q u e s t i o n f r o m t h o l i n e s t h e m s e l v e s I h e l r " b a l l a d "
w h e t h e r t h e n o t e s f u n c t i o n m o r e as g u i d e s , q u a l i t y , t h e r e w o u l d b e l i t t l e n e e d f o r t h e
to s e n d u s w h o r e w o m a y b o e d u c a t e d , o r n o t e . U l t i m a t e l y , t h e I n q u i r y m u s t f o c u s
m o r e i s i n d i c a t i o n s I n I h o m s e l v e s a b o u t o n t h e I n t e g r i t y of s u c h n o t e s a s p a r t s of
Iho c h a r a c t e r of t h e a l l u s i o n s . " N e a r l y . t h e i)Qom, f o r w h o r e t h e y c o n s t i t u t e s p o -
o v u r y t h i n g of i i n p o r t u n c u , , . t h a t Is a p - c l a l i n f o r n t a l i o n a b o u t t h o m o a n i n g of
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L a n d , 1 " w r i t e s M a t l h l o s s e n of M i s s W e s t ' s u b j e c t l o t h e s a m e s c r u t i n y a s a n y of t h e
o n ' s b o o k [ F r o m R i t u a J t o R o m a n c e ) , " h a s o t h e r w o r d ) In w h i c h U is w r i t t e n .
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w i t h s u c h a n a d m i s s i o n it m a y b e g i n t o w h a t h e w o u l d , h a v e c o n s i d e r e d m u f f l i n g
a p p e a r t h a t it w o u l d n o t m u c h m a t t e r if t h o e n e r g y of h i s p o o n i b y e x t e n d e d c o n -
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Scott invontod c h a p t e r e p i g r a p h s , f r o m bo q u e s t i o n e d w h e t h e r tho notes a n d the
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DS C o l e r i d g e w r o t e m a r g i n a l g l o s s o s f o r F, W . D a t o s o n h a s p l a u s i b l y a r g u o d t h a t
Tlie A n c i e n t Muriner). A l l u s i o n s to Danto, T e n n y s o n ' s " T h e Sailor B o y " w o u l d b e
W e b s t e r , M a r v e l l , o r D u u d o l a l r e d o u b t l e s s ; b o t t o r If h a l f t h o stun'^i^as w o r e o m i t t e d , a n d
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shall bring • recondlto context and rather than write
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t h e y w o u l d if w r l l l i j n I n v e r s e . O n tJia
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W h u r o uii s h a l l sou hur u u k u d s k i n . thu s y m b o l stands Incomplete.
W e m o a n to s u g g e s t b y t h o a b o v e a n a l y -
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c o i n p o s u d t h e s u l i n u s to f u r n i s h h i s o w n tliu u u l h u r ' s f n l u n l i c i n , yol I h o y o u g h t lo b o
b a c k g r o u n d , I h u r u w o u l d b e n o l o s s of j u d g u d l i k e a n y o l h u r p a r t s of a c o m p o s i -
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ono roads Eliot's noxt nolo: "I d o not k n o w ticular contoxt), a n d w h e n so j u d g e d Ihelr
t h o o r i g i n of t h o b u l h n l f r o m w h i c h tluiso ruiility us p a r t s of ihu p o e m , o r t h e i r I m a g i -
Unus uru t u k u u ; it w u s l o i i u r t u d ' t u tuu f m n i niilivu I n l o g r u t i o i i w i t h Ihu ruiit u[ t h u
S y d n e y , Australia." T h o Iniportunt w o r d p o o n i , inuy c o n i u I n t o q u e s t i o n . M a t t h i a s -
In t h i s , n o l o — o n M r s P o r t e r a n d h e r s e n , f o r I n s t a n c e , s e e s Ihut E l i o t ' s t i t l e s f o r
d u u g h t o r w h o w u s h o d tlielr foot In s o d a p o o m s a n d h i s o p i g r a p h s aro I n f o r m a t i v e

a p p a r a t u s , like t h e n o t e s . But w h i l e lie is
w o r r i e d b y s o m e of t h e n o t e s a n d t h i n k s
m a t E l l o t " a p p e a r s to b e m o c k i n g h i m s e l f
t o r w r i t i n g t h e n o t e at t h e s a m e t i m e t h a t
h e w a n t s to c o n v e y s o m e t h i n g b y i t . "
- M a t t h l e s s e n b e l i e v e s t h a t " t h e d e v i c e " of
e p i g r a p h s " I s n o t at all o p e n to t h e oLjec-
i-S? 0 / n 0 ' ' 3 e ' n 8 su^fic'ently structural."
T h e I n t e n t i o n , " h e s a y s , " i s to e n a b l e t h e
p o e t t o s e c u r e a c o n d e n s e d e x p r e s s i o n in
the p o e m itself." "In each case the.fipi-
g r a p h Is d e s i g n e d to f o r m a n i n t e g r a l p a r t
o j t h e e f f e c t of t h e p o e m . " A n d Eliot
himself, in his notes, has justified his
p o e t i c p r a c t i c e In t e r m s of i n t e n t i o n .
The Hanged Man, a m e m b e r of ihe U-adl-
Uonal pack, fits m y p u r p o s e in two ways;
because h e Is associated in m y m i n d with
tne Hanged God of. Frazer, and because I.
.associate h i m with the h o o d e d figure in the
passage ^ the disciples to E m m a u s in Part
h0
.1' "V 3 " w l l h T l l r e 9 Staves (an
aulbentlc m e m b e r of the Tarot pack) I asso-
Wmself U w U h 1,18 F i s l l e
f King
A n d p e r h a p s h e is to bo t a k e n m o r e seri-
o u s l y h e r e , w h e n off g u a r d in a n o t e , t h a n
w h e n in his Norton Lectures he continents
o n t h e d i f f i c u l t y of s a y i n g w h a t a p o e m
m e a n s a n d a d d s p l a y f u l l y (hat ho t h i n k s
of p r e f i x i n g lo a s e c o n d e d i t i o n of A s h
W e d n e s d a y some lines from Don / u o n :
I d o n t pretend that I quite understuiid
My own moaning w h e n I w o u l d be very
fine;
But the fact is that I have notliing
planned
Uniesi It were to be a moment merry.
II E l l o t a n d o t h e r c o n t e m p o r a r y p o e t s
h a v e a n y c h a r a c t e r i s t i c f a u l t , it m a y bo in
planning loo m u c h .
A l l u s l v o n e s s in p o e t r y is o n o of suvurul
. c r i t i c a l i s s u e s by w h i c l i w o h u v u illu:>*
t r a l e d t h e m o r o a b s t r a c t i s s u e of i n t e n t i o n -
W m , b u t it m a y b e for t o d a y t h e m o s t
Important illustration. As a poetic prac-
MUUI:I(NI,SM A N D I O U M A I
t i c e u l l u s i v e i i c s s w o u l d a p p e a r to bo in
s o m e recent p o e m s an extreme corollary
of t h e r o m a n t i c i n t e n t i o n a l i s t u s s u i n p t i o n ,
a n d a s a c r i t i c a l i s s u e it c h a l l e n g e s a n d
b r i n g s to l i g h t in a s p e c i a l w a y t h e b a s i c
p r e m i s e of i n t e i i t i o n a l i s m . T h e f o l l o w i n g
i n s t a n c e f r o m t h e p o e t r y , of E l i o t n i a y
s e r v e to e p i t o m i i o t h o priiciicul i i n p l i c u -
tions^ of w h a t w o i i a v e b e o n s a y i n g . In
E l i o t ' s " L o v e S o n g of J. A l f r e d P r u f r o c k , "
t o w a r d s the e n d . o c c u r s tho lino: "I h a v e
h e a . - d ( t h e m e r m a i d s s i n g i n g , e a c h lo
each, ' and this bears a cerlcin rcsem-
b l a n c e to a l i n e i n a S o n g b y J o h n D o n n e ,
T e a c h m e to h e a r o M c r m a i d e . ' . s i n g i n g , "
s o t h a t f o r t h e r e a d e r a c q u a i n t e d to a
certain degree with Donne's poetry, the
c r i t i c a l q u e s t i o n a r i s e s : Is E l i o t ' s l i n e ati
a l l u s i o n to D o n n o ' s ? Is P r u f r o c k t i i i n k i n g
a b o u t D o n n o ? Is EIIol t h i n k i n g a b o u t
D o n n e ? We suggest that there are two
r a d i c a l l y d i f f e r e n t w a y s of l o o k i n g f o r u n
a n s w e r jto t h i s q u e s t i o n . T h o r o is ( i ) t h e
w a y of p o e t i c a n a l y s i s a n d e x e g e s i s
w h t c h ^ i n q u i r e s w h o t h e r it n t u k o s a n y
s e n s e if E l i n l - P r u f r o c k is t h i n k i n g a b o u t
D o n n e . In a n e a r l i e r p a r t of tiie p o o m
w h e n P r u f r o c k a s k s , " W o u l d it h a v e b e e n
worth while, . . . To have squeezed tho
u n i v e r s e I n t o a b a l l , " h i s w o r d s t a k e half
t h e i r s a d n e s s a n d i r o n y f r o m c c r l u i n o»iur-
g e t i c a n d p a s s i o n a t e l i n e s of . M a r v e l . ' s
" T o liis Coy M i s t r e s s . " But the txeyetil;ul
inquirer may wonder whether mermaids
c o n s i d e r e d us " s t r a n g o s i g h t s " (to h o a r
t h e i n is in D o n n o ' s p o e m a n a l o g o u s to
g e t t i n g w i t h c h i l d a m a n d r a k e root) h a v e
m u c h to d o w i t h P r u f r o c k ' s nvermaid.s,
w h i c h s e e m to bo s y m b o l s of r o m a n c e a n d
dynamism, and which incidentally have
i t e r a r y a u t h e n t i c a t i o n , if t h e y n e e d it, in a
l i n e of a s o n n e t b y G 6 r a r d d e N e . v a l , T h i s
n i e t l i o d of i n q u i r y m a y l e a d to t h o c o n c l u -
s i o n tluit llio g i v o n i u s u i i i b l u n t : o b o t w o o n
liliot a n d D o n n o is w i t h o u t . i g n i l i i j a n c o
a n d IS b e t t e r n o t t h o u g h l of, o r thu m e t h o d
m a y h a v e t h e d i s a d v a n t a g e of p r o v i d i n g
no certain conclusion-. Nevertheless, w a
W. K. W I M . S A r i ' . )l(„ A N D Mt)NIU)M lli;AUI)iil,liY
s u b m i t t h a t thi. 0 is t a u t r u e a n d o b j e c t i v u
U. Aiiuiidu K. C o u i i i u r o s w u i j i y , "liituiilloii," In
w a y o f c r i t i c i s m , us c o n t r u s t e d lo w h a t t h o
A n i u r i c u n Uookintiii, 1 ( 1 0 4 4 ) .
v e r y u n c e r t a i n t y of o x o g o s i s m i g h l l e n i u l a
s e c o n d k i n d of c r i t i c to u n d o r t a k e : (2) t h o *• It l» Uuo Uwt Ctoeo htimuU lu lilj Ariusi Shak*-
w a y of b i o g r a p h i c a l o r g e n e t i c I n q u i r y , i n
tpeori), and Corneiilg (tendon. .1920), chip. vU.
'•Tho Procllcsl Perionaltly ond tho Pootlcai Purion»l.'
v / h l c h , t a k i n g a d v a n t a g e of t h e f a c t t h a t Ity." und lu till O v f v n c D o f Fuolcy (Oxford, 1033), 2 4 ,
Eliol is s t i l l a l i v e , a n d in t h o s|)lrlt of a ,und uUuwIiuru, ourly uiiil lulu. Iiui dullvurud lullliw
m a n w h o w o u l d s o U h i u bol, t h o c r i t i c ulluckK uii viiiullvv uuiiullcljm. liul tliu muiii dilvu ol
w r i t e s to E l i o l a n d a s k s w h a t h e m e a n t , o r thu AoilJitillc li lately igwardi » kind o( coiniUvo
mtenllonall«m.
if h o h a d P o n a e i n m i n d . W o s h a l l n o t I
h e n v v e i g h t h o p r o b u b i l l l l e s — w h e t h e r El- 5. See yughei Mearnj. Crealive Voulh (Girden Oly
lot W o u l d a n s w e r t h a t h o m o c n t n o t h i n g ol (1925), 0,p. 10, 27-9. The technique o l intpiriiu
all, h a d n o t h i n g a t all In m i n d — a s u f f i -
Roomi ha* apparently buun outdone more recently
. by (hu #tudy of innplwlion iu iucc«jful pQ«u and
ciently g o o d a n s w e r to s u c h a q u o s l i o n — otliuf urlltili. ASou,o l o (or, Inatancu, Ro«iimond E. M.
or In a n u n g u a r d e d m o m e n t m i g h t f u r n i s h " " y o f h u p i r a l l o n (ambrldne,
a c l e a r a n d , w i t h i n Us l i m i t , I r r e f u t a b l e lunl i U . M P o r t n o y , A P'yciioJoxy o/Art Crsallon
a n s w e r . O u r p o i n t Is t h a t s u c h a n a n s w e r (PhliadolpliU, 1942)! Rudolf Arnheli > .nd other.
lo s u c h a n i n q u i r y w o u l d h a v e n o t h i n g to
Poelj at Work (New York. 1947): Phyllli Dartlett
roem« In Proceii (New York. 1951); Drgwtter Chlso-
do w i t h t h o poon> " P r u f r o c k " ; U w o u l d Un. ud., I lis Cruulico Prucuij: u iiymuojlunr(Uoili>-
not bo a critical i n q u i r y . Critical Inquiries, luyand l.o» Anijolo*. 1U52).
u n l i k e b e t s , a r e n o t s e t t l e d in t h i s w a y .
0., CurtJio.
Dueasiie. TJie Piii/ojupliy o/ Art (Now York
Critical i n q u i r i e s are not settled by con- J029). 'v.i..
s u l t i n g tlio o r a c l o .
7. Ajid tho history of words o/lor a pouni 1».written
niuy contribute mounliiKs whicli it relevant lo the
NOTES
orlBliiul jiutlorn iliould nul be ruled out by « jcruulo r
ubuut liit'jiilloii,
1 8. Chaps, vlll, "The Pallern," and xvl, "The Know a
'( World Liiorxjluro. Jostipli T. Sliipluy,
eu. (New York, 11142), 323_9. r
' and Familiar Uiidscape." will be found cf most help
to tho student of the poem.
2. J. E. Si.li.aurn, "Tllu Nuw CrltlcUm." In Crilicism 9. a . i a r l e i M . C o f n n . J o l m D o n n e a n d Ihe N e w
in Amenco ( N o w Y o r k , 19^4), 2 4 - 5 ,
P J i i l o s o p h y ( N e w Y o r k . 1927). 9 7 - 8 .