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Sue Owen
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Acknowledgements .................................................................................... ix
David Lodge
Richard Hoggart: A Personal Appreciation ................................................. 1
Fred Inglis
Richard Hoggart: The Intellectual as Politician......................................... 11
Jon Nixon
The Legacy of Richard Hoggart: Education as Democratic Practice ........ 26
Ben Clarke
“To think fearlessly”: Richard Hoggart and the Politics of the English
Language .................................................................................................. 43
Sue Owen
Richard Hoggart and Literature ................................................................ 58
Sean Matthews
The Uses of D. H. Lawrence ..................................................................... 85
Katie Wales
The Anxiety of Influence: Hoggart, Liminality and Melvyn Bragg’s
Crossing the Lines ................................................................................... 102
Simon Grimble
“Stances and Tones Before Life”: Richard Hoggart and the Question
of Voice ................................................................................................... 118
viii Table of Contents
Michael Rosenfeld
Local Habitations: Working-Class Childhood and its Uses
in the Memoirs of Richard Hoggart and Others....................................... 131
Tom Steele
Questions of Taste and Class: Richard Hoggart and Bonamy Dobrée .... 142
Malcolm Hadley
Promoting International Understanding and Cooperation:
Richard Hoggart’s UNESCO years (1970-1975) ................................... 153
Appendix
Letter from W. H. Auden to Richard Hoggart, 7 January 1958 .............. 175
Index........................................................................................................ 182
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SIMON HOGGART
“YOUR Dad’s famous, isn’t he?” I was sometimes asked at school. Hard
to know how to reply, so I evolved the all-purpose answer, “he’s well
known in his field”, which was both true and, I thought, pleasingly
modest. Of course he was rather more famous than that, though a long way
from what is known now to young people as a “sleb”–a celebrity.
The nearest Dad came to real celebrity was during the Lady Chatterley
trial in 1960, which filled page after page in the papers. One carried the
headline: “Lady C ‘puritanical’ says the potty prof”. For a schoolboy son
this was both exhilarating and deeply embarrassing, though we were
naturally exceedingly proud when the jury found in favour of the book. In
2006 BBC4 made another film about the trial. Dad was played by David
Tennant, who had just started as Doctor Who. He had researched the part
thoroughly, had a picture of Dad on his mobile phone, had studied
newspaper pictures of the time to get the right clothes, and watched old
TV interviews for the crucial intonation. It was a fine performance (Doctor
Who, Hamlet, Richard Hoggart makes an eclectic collection of roles), but
the only thing wrong was his long sideburns. I told him Dad had never
ever worn those; he grinned and said that he had to play the Doctor again
next day, and the sideburns wouldn’t grow back in time. That’s a very
modern form of fame: being depicted on television wearing Doctor Who’s
face furniture.
I learned other things at the time. The son of Mervyn Griffiths-Jones
QC, the prosecuting counsel, told me that his father always prepared his
words to the jury with great care and never deviated from his script. But
on that occasion he felt that his opening address was going so well that he
could risk an ad lib. The line, “would you want your wife or servants to
read this book?” popped out. He realised immediately that he had blown
the speech, and possibly the whole trial, though Dad’s evidence was also
critically important. He had seen some other academics being turned over
by Griffiths-Jones, who had easily backed them into qualifications and
scholarly caveats, making their evidence seem feeble and evasive. So he
was determined not to back down from anything he said. Hence the long
Re-Reading Richard Hoggart xi
could afford holidays in France, and a car that actually started on winter
mornings.
Two more years in Hull were followed by a move to Leicester, where
Dad loved working with the cerebral, gentle and endlessly generous
Arthur Humphreys. This was also the time he was working on the
Pilkington committee on broadcasting. Its bold assertion of the importance
of public service broadcasting was controversial at the time–at least among
those who wanted to make themselves rich by giving the public “what it
wants”–but did, I think, keep the argument along the right lines and helped
considerably to maintain broadcasting standards in Britain. The committee
was partly peripatetic, meeting in members’ homes on occasion, so when
Billy Wright, former captain of the England football team, came to visit us
my brother and I were thrilled. (Though Wright let us and the
neighbourhood boys beat him at tackling in the garden, which wasn’t the
idea at all.) Joyce Grenfell also came, and she remained a life-long friend.
I won’t forget the summer party we three children gave for Mum and Dad.
It rained, so everyone had to come in from the garden. Joyce perched on
the arm of a sofa and did her act. Everyone was entranced.
Leicester had been satisfactory in very many ways, but around then
Birmingham offered the chance to set up the Centre for Contemporary
Cultural Studies, and he moved there in 1962. The Centre was hugely
absorbing, though staff relationships in the English department were
perhaps not quite so good. However, Malcolm Bradbury–briefly–and
David Lodge were there and they were frequent visitors to our house.
As was the poet Auden, one memorable summer in 1967. Dad’s first
book had been a critical discussion of his work, and Auden had liked it.
Dad nominated him for an honorary degree at Birmingham, and the
tradition was that if your graduand was picked, you had to put them up.
Auden had been partly raised in Birmingham, and was pleased to visit the
place again. He swept in and made himself very much at home. Various
friends and colleagues from the university were invited to meet the great
man. I was in charge of drinks. Auden asked if I knew how to make a dry
martini. I said I thought I did. “I’ll show you how I make them”, he
growled (his voice seemed a strange mixture of English, American and
even a touch of Germanic, since he spent half the year in Austria.) He took
a three pint jug from the cupboard, emptied an entire bottle of gin into it,
added a whole lemon sliced and a trayful of ice cubes. He then poured in
one bottle-cap of dry vermouth and stirred. He placed the jug in front of
him on a coffee table and held court. It lasted the length of the party, just.
His conversation was, for someone anxious to learn about the
wellsprings of his poetry, perhaps disappointing. He spoke at length about
Re-Reading Richard Hoggart xiii
the merits of Kenwood mixers, and recounted an amusing story about the
time he and his partner Chester Kallman had tried LSD in New York, in
order to discover what all the fuss was about. A doctor friend had
administered the drug but nothing had happened. They had gone out to a
diner for a meal. Auden was delighted to see his mailman apparently doing
a dance on the sidewalk. This was a proper druggy hallucination, so they
had hurried back to their apartment. Next morning the mailman rang the
doorbell and asked why they had ignored him. “I had a parcel for you, Mr
Auden, and I was jumping up and down to get your attention, but you
looked right through me…” Much of the time the poet spent in a deckchair
in the garden, chain-smoking Lucky Strikes. There was a touching
moment at the end of his stay, a Sunday morning, when I descended to
find him tracing the grid of the Observer crossword onto baking paper, so
he could solve it without spoiling it for anyone else.
Next was Paris in 1970, working as an assistant director-general at
UNESCO, the UN’s cultural organisation, and a real culture shock in
itself. It offered bureaucracy that made Indian railways clerks seem as free
spirited as sailors on shore leave, and gave an alarming introduction to the
grand certainties of French life (there was a lovely, cosy restaurant round
the corner from their apartment called Le Lloyds. It would never admit
them–“desolé, monsieur, nous sommes tout à fait complet”–even when
they were plainly empty. Dad’s French secretary knew how to solve that
problem over the phone: “M. Richard Hoggart, le sous-directeur
MONDIALE de l’UNESCO commande une table!” They were honoured
customers from then on.)
To begin with, it was a lonely time for my mother. Her own mother
had just died, my sister and I had left home, and my younger brother was
just starting university. The empty nest was not even her own house. The
French are not the easiest people to be close to, and Dad’s work was
demanding and absorbing, if at times horribly frustrating. For us three
children, however, it was wonderful–the salary was generous and they
announced they would pay fares for as many times as we wished to visit.
Many friends and acquaintances came to stay or at least get a proper cup
of tea in apartment they rented in a fine hôtel particulière on the
Boulevard Haussmann. UNESCO took him around the world,
accompanied by our mother as often as was possible. These travels
included India, Japan, Australia, the US, Africa, Latin America and
countless small nations where there might be a temple, a library, a mural
or a fortress to be saved.
Back in Britain after five years, they moved to an old converted hop
barn in Farnham, Surrey, almost the countryside and only an hour from
xiv Foreword
SUE OWEN
Richard Hoggart has been one of the leading cultural commentators of the
last sixty years. He was the first literary critic to take the working class
seriously and to extend the parameters of literary criticism to include
popular culture. Hoggart put the working class on the cultural map. He
differentiated between what was offered by the “popular providers”
(media, popular fiction, advertisements) and the resilient culture of
working-class people themselves. Hoggart’s most famous work is the
seminal The Uses of Literacy. Part II (written first) offers a searing
indictment of the specious populism and banality of popular newspapers
and magazines, the fake “pally patter” of the tabloids and of adverts aimed
at ordinary people, and the literary flatness and moral emptiness of much
popular fiction. Part I celebrates the resilient culture of working-class
people themselves and offers a basis for the argument that working-class
people deserve better than what passes for popular culture.
This creates the basis for a challenging the elitism of his predecessors,
such as Matthew Arnold, T. S. Eliot and F.R. and Q. D. Leavis. Hoggart
questions these critics’ view of “the masses” as passive recipients of a
debased “mass culture”. Discussing in an interview Queenie Leavis’s
Fiction and the Reading Public¸ he observes:
It’s a classic text, but throughout it she treated romantic fiction as though
she had a peg on her nose. She also made a fairly simple equation between
what people read, and what they become. So I wanted to look at popular
literature in a more inward way to show that a good bad book may bring
out good impulses, or that people may bring to it things which are
themselves almost unconsciously critical. (Hoggart, 1990, B6)
It is plain that behind almost any discussion today about the arts, and
indeed about any of those areas if British culture with which I have been
involved, lies the evaded question of value judgments. (1993, 240)
It is true … that it is better to be free to find our own rules than to have
them imposed by church or state. But it is precisely in these kinds of
democracies that this openness is comprehensively abused by people with
their own ulterior purposes, does not lead to our being left alone, let alone
aided to find our own beliefs. We are besieged by a mass of apparently
conflicting but actually consonant voices, each peddling its own patterns of
overt or more likely hidden beliefs. All of them–politicians, advertisers,
tabloid newspaper hacks and many another–are interested parties; the ways
of life they offer have overwhelmingly at their centre the notion that it’s all
a matter of taste, and of changing taste, since that’s what keeps the wheels
of this kind of society turning. Openness becomes emotional promiscuity,
choice becomes whim; but underneath is a passivity, the acceptance of
things as they are and are offered. (1993, 240)
As it is, too many of us stay most of the time within our well-defined
academic areas – but succumb easily to occasional invitations from the
world outside. We do not with sufficient confidence separate ourselves
from that world nor sufficiently critically engage with it. By insisting on
the difficult but responsible life of language, and on the overriding
importance of the human scale, we can try to do our part in resisting the
unreal, unfelt and depersonalized society. (1973, 237)
Re-Reading Richard Hoggart xix
though some of the issues he outlines have been addressed, others remain
comparatively unexplored.
Hoggart reiterates that the literary critical approach is the “most
important of all” and explains why it is distinct from the sociological
approach:
It will be clear that there is a literary critical slant to all this from which
later cultural studies has largely departed. Hoggart values literary critical
method for its truth-revealing power, its ability to reveal tones and
nuances, identify influence, to elucidate, expose and debunk. But always
Hoggart insists on the quiddity of the literary or cultural object of study.
The text is never to be read as historical evidence, but always from inside
out rather than outside in. My essay in this volume elaborates on these
issues. Unsurprisingly, these disciplinary distinctions were not always
maintained in the way Hoggart envisaged them, especially after his
departure from the Centre, though as Stuart Hall and Lawrence Grossberg
have pointed out, his influence was nevertheless very strong (Grossberg
2007 and forthcoming; Hall, 2007 and forthcoming). The importance of
Hoggart’s initiative in founding the CCCS would be hard to overstate.
In this volume both the origins and continuing relevance of Hoggart’s
contribution to cultural studies are explored. Sue Owen and Ben Clarke
discuss the origins within literary criticism of cultural studies as practised
at the Birmingham Centre, and explore the significance of this. Fred Inglis
locates Hoggart within the history of ideas and argues for his importance
amidst the “dreadful babble of management jargon which constitutes the
élite conversation of culture” (below, 11). Many critics have traced the
origin of Hoggartian cultural studies in the tradition of Matthew Arnold, T.
S. Eliot, and especially in the work of F. R. and Q. D. Leavis, tempered by
voices such as Tawney’s and Orwell’s which were more sympathetic to
working-class culture. Sue Owen discusses below another influence, that
of W. H. Auden, a fellow though very different outsider, about whom
Re-Reading Richard Hoggart xxi
Hoggart wrote his first book, Auden: an Introductory Essay. Tom Steele
traces origins of Hoggart’s interest in cultural studies in unexpected
places: the influence of his tutor at Leeds University, Bonamy Dobrée, and
of Italian intellectuals encountered in wartime. Steele argues that Hoggart
has close affiliations to the maligned autodidact tradition, and that public
institutions also played an important role in forming his taste and feeling
for class: schools, libraries, universities, adult education, the serious press
and public service broadcasting. Sean Matthews argues for the influence
of D. H. Lawrence on the formation of the Birmingham Centre for
Contemporary Cultural Studies and on the whole field of Cultural Studies.
Hoggart did not remain at the Birmingham Centre but handed over to
Stuart Hall in 1970 to take up a post as Assistant Director-General of
UNESCO. Malcolm Hadley discusses this period of his life in the final
essay in this volume. Hoggart’s description of the move in his Life and
Times is revealing:
For Hoggart, public service is a duty of the intellectual. It flows from his
conception of the intellectual’s social and political role that he has not
lived in the ivory tower but has engaged in society, striving for change
from within. In addition to his five years as Assistant Director-General of
UNESCO, he has undertaken many activities in arts, culture, broadcasting
and education. Amongst other positions, he has served as: a member of the
Albermarle Committee on Youth Services, a member of the Pilkington
Committee on Broadcasting, Reith Lecturer, Chair of the Broadcasting
Research Unit, Vice-Chair of the Arts Council, Chair of the Statesman and
Nation Publishing Company, Chair of the Advisory Council for Adult and
Continuing Education and member of the British Board of Film
Classification Appeals Committee. Hoggart was a leading witness for the
defence in the trial at the Old Bailey in 1960 of Penguin Books Ltd. for
publishing D. H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover. His evidence is
widely acknowledged to have been central in leading to the acquittal,
which marked a watershed in public perception and shifted cultural
parameters. As Sean Matthews argues below, this “was an event which
drew together several different strands of his life and work, as well as
being saturated with wider cultural significance, and its echoes and
resonances continue to this day” (below, 86). Hoggart was also the first
xxii Introduction
I began this chapter with an image for the shape of my professional life
after the publication of The Uses of Literacy; the picture of a single river
breaking into many subsidiary streams. Yet the dispersal was in forms of
activity, not in types of interest. The delta has had only four or five
branches, and they all interconnect.
Their common source is a sense of the importance of the right of each
of us to speak about how we see life, the world; and so the right to have
access to the means by which that capacity to speak may be gained. The
right, also, to try to reach out and speak to others, not to have that impulse
inhibited by social barriers, maintained by those in power politically or
able to exercise power in other ways.
So the main currents of my interests have been: the right of wider
access to higher education, the need for wider access also to the arts as the
most scrupulous explorations we can make of our personalities and
relationships, and of the nature of our societies; and, as a support to all this,
the best uses of mass communications. (1993, 26)
There is more here than the decent man’s hostility to the use of theory to
exclude. Hoggart’s reservations are methodological. He believes in the
emergence of ideas about the “bigger picture” from the building up of
evidential detail:
If you look long enough at a group of similar things, if you hold back from
the first and second and third general comment which comes to mind
(whether those comments are small talk or large theory), then occasionally
a new unifying idea forms, more useful than what preceded it, able to
xxiv Introduction
become a tool of enquiry. Others may have reached similar ideas by that or
different, more structured routes.
My own early ideas of this sort, ideas now much written about
theoretically by others and reaches independently by different routes than
mine, include, in looking at the ways of working-class people: the manner
in which resistance and resilience to new things (cars, videos, television,
houses owned not rented) and then their adoption, adaptation, modification
and absorption if they prove interesting and useful, if they chime with
existing cultural assumptions–how all this works.
Working-class people are then seen as less passive than is often
assumed; and not likely to be quickly “made middle-class” by acquiring
what are labeled middle-class objects.
Though the acknowledgment that others may reach similar ideas by more
structured and theoretical routes is characteristically generous and open-
minded, the real thrust of Hoggart’s argument is that reaching too quickly
for theory or approaching the working class through a theoretical prism
obscures the truth. In particular, theories about bourgeoisification of “the
masses” obscure subtle processes of resilience, adaptation and evolving
class identity.
There have been two strands of critical judgment of Hoggart’s
relationship to theory: the first either criticizes or marginalizes him for
being untheoretical, or praises him for decency, in spite of an absence of
theory. An example of the negative version of this approach is discussed
by Simon Grimble on p. 129 below. A positive version is exemplified
Stefan Collini in English Pasts.3 Collini considers Hoggart to be a moralist
rather than a theorist:
… that a society bears values, cannot help bearing values and deciding
their relative significance; that it makes what seems like a significant or
ordered whole out of experience, a total and apparently meaningful view of
life; that it embodies these structures of values in systems of meaning,
rituals, forms; that it lives out these values expressively, in its actions and
arts; that this living out of values is a dialectical process, never complete,
always subject to innovation and change; that no one individual ever
makes a perfect ‘fit’ with the dominant order of values of his culture.
(Hoggart, 1969, cited, Grossberg, 2007, 127)
Grossberg notes that this is a theoretical position and adds “I say this
because Hoggart (like [Raymond] Williams sometimes) is often described
as being either anti-theoretical or at least, atheoretical. But this “dismissal”
depends on an argument that slides from a number of correct
observations–that Hoggart did not see himself as a theorist; that he
disliked certain kinds of (at the time, increasingly influential) theories; and
that he despised theory for its own sake, as if theory could answer
questions before one even begins the real (empirically grounded) work of
analysis–to the fundamentally incorrect conclusion that Hoggart’s vision
of cultural studies was not theoretically based, and that he thought cultural
studies could somehow function without theory” (Grossberg,
forthcoming). He adds in a note: “The defense of Hoggart as anti-
theoretical is often predicated on, or aligned with the rather patronizing
assumption that ‘ordinary people’ cannot or will not read theory, and
hence, that anything addressed to them must be atheoretical”. (ibid)
Bill Hughes has argued that Hoggart’s work parallels the more
theoretical analyses of the “Culture Industry” by Adorno and Horkheimer:
Some critics have contrasted Hoggart and Raymond Williams, but Hughes
sees that they have much in common. Stuart Hall, similarly, discusses the
importance of the collective redefinition offered by Hoggart, Raymond
Williams and E.P. Thompson of culture as the lived experience, self-
expression and capacity for historical intervention of ordinary people.
(1980, 57-72). Raymond Williams himself saw Hoggart more as a
collaborator than a rival. In the second issue of the Universities and Left
Review (summer 1957), devoted to a debate on The Uses of Literacy,
Williams praised Hoggart’s deep loyalty to his own people but repudiated
his critique of working-class materialism and criticized his exclusion of
the politically active minority of the working class. This debate has been
read differently by Francis Mulhern and by Stuart Hall. Where Mulhern
sees grave criticism of Hoggart’s method, Stuart Hall sees a collective
effort to expand the definition of culture and politics and a growing
perception of culture as one of the constitutive grounds of all social
practices (Mulhern, 2000, 62-3; Hall, 2007).
Hoggart is sometimes contrasted with his successor at the CCCS,
Stuart Hall, with a crude assumption that Hoggart is empirical where Hall
is theoretical. However, this view is not purveyed by Hall himself. Hall
regards present-day Cultural Studies as possessing an “astonishing
theoretical fluency”. This is an implicit criticism of the over-theorization
of Cultural Studies, since Hall continues: “The only theory worth having is
that which you have to fight off, not that which you speak with profound
fluency” (1992, 280). In a recent essay, Hall cites the redefinition of
culture as the most important of Hoggart’s “methodological and
conceptual innovations”:
best that has been thought and said”, which animated the tradition from
Arnold to Eliot and Leavis. The aim to make culture in the former sense a
central and necessary part of the object of study, however fitfully achieved,
was as defining a break as [Raymond] Williams’ third definition in The
Long Revolution–culture as “ways of life”–and, moreover, despite
significant differences, a break moving in a parallel direction. This was a
formative moment for Cultural Studies. (Hall, 2007, 42-3)
For Hall, “The Uses of Literacy, in trying to break from this master-
discourse of cultural decline, was precisely ‘a text of the break’ … and for
that very reason opened possibilities that Cultural Studies and ‘the cultural
turn’ were subsequently to build on”. By “the cultural turn” Hall means
the growing centrality of culture, both in terms of the global expansion and
sophistication of the cultural industries and as a category of analysis.4 For
Hall, Hoggart’s argument about working-class resilience has a vital
theoretical importance which makes a “break” with the pessimism of his
predecessors and has influenced Hall’s own subsequent work:
There was a profound insight embedded here which runs like a thread
through the subsequent twists and turns of Cultural Studies. It posed a
critical challenge. It set cultural analysis irrevocably against any tendency
to reductionism–whether to pure ideology, “the economy” or “class
interests” (while not denying that social interests have a bearing on how
ideologies and culture develop or that social location is significant for
which ideas are taken up and made effective). Of course, this had
consequences for its theoretical work. The relation between the cultural
and the social could not be assumed; and, since it did not operate
automatically–as what Marx once called “the reflex” of the economy in the
sphere of thought–it had to be re-conceptualised, in all its concreteness and
historical specificity. Culture did not consist of free-floating ideas; it had to
be understood as embedded in social practices. But it was something other
than a reflection of some more determinate “base” in some dependent
“superstructure”. The question of the Centre’s relation to classical
Marxism is written in to this conceptual conundrum, and begins to explain
why the Centre went on such a long theoretical “detour” (Hall,
forthcoming).
Hall finds in Hoggart the roots of other innovations at the heart of Cultural
Studies:
Second, there was the insistence that “ways of life” had to be studied in
and for themselves, as a necessary contextualising of any attempt to
understand cultural change, and not inferred from textual analysis alone.
We may call this the social imperative at the heart of Hoggart’s method:
and from such origins the interdisciplinary character of Cultural Studies
(which has since been somewhat obscured by the Humanities deluge)
derived. Third, there was the emphasis on culture as primarily a matter of
meaning: not meanings as free-floating ideas or as ideals embodied in texts
but as part of lived experience, shaping social practice: analysis as “the
clarification of the meanings and values implicit and explicit in a particular
ways of life” (Williams, [The Long Revolution], 1965: 57). Fourth, there
was the methodological innovation evidenced in Hoggart’s adaptation of
the literary-critical method of “close reading” to the sociological task of
interpreting the lived meanings of a culture. One says “sociological”, but
clearly something more innovative than standard empirical sociological
methods was required–nothing less than a kind of “social hermeneutics” is
implied in these interpretive procedures: “we have to try to see beyond the
habits to what the habits stand for to see through the statements to what the
statements really mean (which may be the opposite of the statements
themselves) to detect the differing pressures of emotion behind idiomatic
phrases and ritualistic observances” (Hoggart, [The Uses of Literacy],
1958: 17). (Hall, 2007, 43)
Re-Reading Richard Hoggart xxxi
The notion that audiences actively bring something to, rather than simply
being spoken to by texts, and that “reading” is an active exchange, was
taken up in the critique of the dominant “effects” tradition in mass
communications research that organized much of the Centre’s early
research projects, certainly underpins my own work on the
“encoding/decoding model” (Hall, 1980)6 and was revived in the influence
of Bakhtin’s idea of the dialogic and the “active audience”, reader-
response and even the elements of overkill in the so-called “populist”
emphases of later work on audiences. The legacy of culture as the
interpretive study of meanings embedded in “ways of life” is to be found in
the many studies that deployed ethnographic, participant observation and
other anthropological techniques of what Geertz called “thick description”,
and beyond that, to the language of “signifying practices”. The view that
textual material have real social effectivity only when they “work along the
groove” of existing attitudes and inflect them in new directions contains a
model of how social ideologies really achieve their effects much in
xxxii Introduction
Hall locates the reception of Uses within the context of the rise of the New
Left. He sees Hoggart’s arguments not as in conflict with those of the left,
but as being in keeping with leftist assessments of the “conjuncture” (a
term borrowed from Althusser and much in vogue in the 1970s), for
example, in relation to Americanisation, the post-war boom, rising living
standards, the shift from “older, tiered, socially embedded class structures
and Protestant Ethic typical of Western European bourgeois societies to
the more truncated, “post-industrial” class structures, based on corporate
capital, money, celebrity lifestyle, hedonism and consumption” (2007, 47).
Hoggart is no longer a “Matthew Arnoldian liberal humanist”,8 but the
precursor of Althusser and Saussure.
However, it is important to qualify Hall’s view of Hoggart as the
precursor of post-modern theory. The opposite may also be true: Hoggart
has a strong dislike of the preference for style over substance. He makes a
searing critique of superficiality, whether in contemporary literature or
popular culture. I shall discuss this in depth in the chapter on Hoggart and
Literature below. His exposure of the moral, political and cultural danger
of superficiality and of the preference for form over content may also
serve as an indictment of the excesses of post-modernism:
The best way to keep their people from seeking alternative goals would be
to flood them with “data”, to offer them the chance to become anxious only
about “form”, so that they came to believe that goals are out and poise in.
Then they might keep on playing roles endlessly, and harmlessly–with no
political effect. But by God they’d have style! (1973, 135).
Mass society, mass culture, mass consumerism and mass markets were
integral aspects of this historic shift [towards post-industrial class
structures]: precisely how to understand their real interdependencies
Re-Reading Richard Hoggart xxxiii
There are two things to take from Hoggart’s idea of ordinariness. Firstly,
the way that it revealed the categories for scholarly analysis to be so
narrow that only the exceptional in society were worthy of study. His
suggestion that the majority of working-class lives remained outside of
analytic attention pointed to a fundamental problem in the academic value
system. The second point is the recognition that most people in the
working and middle classes demonstrate a profound lack of interest in
politics. Daily life hinges upon the twin axes of home and neighbourhood,
with any sense of a wider world kept at a safe distance from everyday
dealings. Hoggart purposefully avoided reference to the outwardly political
actors within the working class because they were a minority. This was a
key distinction to make: to differentiate between the working-class
movement and the culture as a whole. (Gregg, forthcoming)
time before the audit culture. Grimble ends by placing some of these
concerns within recent arguments about the presumed decline in the status
of the intellectual in contemporary society, and consider how some of the
virtues of “voice” could be reclaimed.
The remaining contributions examine Hoggart’s life and continue
Grimble’s focus on his early influences. Michael Rosenfeld shows how,
although The Uses of Literacy draws us into Richard Hoggart’s early
twentieth-century childhood in Leeds, the first volume of his
autobiography, A Local Habitation, does so even more directly and
intimately. Rosenfeld compares the experiences Hoggart recounts with
those depicted in other memoirs of early twentieth-century working-class
childhood in the industrial slums of the North and Midlands. The two
volumes by the prison educator Robert Roberts, A Ragged Schooling and
The Classic Slum, and The Road to Nab End (a.k.a. Billy Boy) by the
expatriate economic historian William Woodruff, dealing respectively
with Salford and Blackburn in the 1920s and 1930s, present a similar set
of circumstances and experiences to those that shaped Hoggart. Set against
that common background, Rosenfeld attempts to delineate what those
childhood experiences were and how they were instrumental in shaping an
enduring and similar social and political outlook that kept these men
morally committed to the working class and the vision of a more humane
Britain. Rosenfeld also compares Paul Johnson’s recently published
memoir of his childhood, The Vanished Landscape, which gives a picture
of a very near contemporary professional middle class childhood on the
fringes of the claypits of The Potteries. For all of them, childhood memory
transmuted into memoir becomes a form of political engagement, although
the purposes they pursue are far from identical. In contrast to the others,
Roberts and Hoggart narrate the past to problematize the present.
Rosenfeld concludes with reference to Carolyn Steedman’s strategy in
Landscape for a Good Woman: in order to write history we must first
narrate backwards and then interpret forward. This is what Hoggart and
Roberts have done.
Tom Steele argues that one of the biggest ruptures in Hoggart's early
life was his northerly trek across town to become an undergraduate at the
University of Leeds. Unlike many middle class students for whom such a
journey is merely part of a seamless continuum of bourgeois acculturation,
for Hoggart as for most working class students it posed a formidable
challenge. The fascination with the style and composure of literary
intellectuals like his mentor Dobrée and exultance in the sheer joy he gave
to reading could have resulted in his turning his back on his own class
experience once and for all. But Steele shows that for Hoggart it did not.
xlii Introduction
archive by Simon Hoggart on this occasion. Auden thanks Hoggart for The
Uses of Literacy “which I found fascinating”. He adds: “I have no doubt
whatever that it is first class”. Auden goes on to praise Hoggart’s study of
his own work as “most understanding and generous”. He speaks of his
own wish to épater not just the bourgeoisie but all conceptions of artistic
decorum. He discusses his own “mixed style” and antipathy to French
classical drama. He speaks of his own middle-class background and says
he feels lucky to be born into the middle class: “Whatever their faults, the
middle class have realised and introduced into civilisation two great
virtues, integrity about money and devotion to work”. He elaborates upon
this remark with some remarks about the different values of the aristocracy
and the poor and discusses the legacy of his own family background: a
horror of debt and guilt about indulging in any pleasure unless he can feel
he has done enough work to deserve it. He tackles some specific criticisms
made in Hoggart’s Auden: an Introductory Essay and makes a few
corrections. He ends by hoping they might meet. The letter is important
because it shows Auden’s respect for Hoggart and sheds light on the
literary methods of both writers.
Works Cited
Collini, Stefan (1999). English Pasts: Essays in History and Culture.
Oxford: OUP.
—. (forthcoming). “Richard Hoggart: Literary Criticism and Cultural
Decline in 20th-Century Britain” in Richard Hoggart and Cultural
Studies, ed. Sue Owen. Palgrave.
Corner, John (1991). “Studying culture: reflections and assessments. An
interview with Richard Hoggart”, Media, Culture and Society 13, 137-
151.
Gaboriau, Patrick and Philippe Gaboriau (1991). “Popular Culture Studies
in France”, Journal of Popular Culture 24.4, Spring, 177-181.
Gregg, Melissa (forthcoming). “The Importance of Being Ordinary” in
Richard Hoggart and Cultural Studies, ed. Sue Owen, (Palgrave).
Grossberg, Lawrence (2007). “Rereading the Past from the Future”,
International Journal of Cultural Studies, Special Issue: the Uses of
Richard Hoggart, ed. Sue Owen and John Hartley, 10.1. (March), 125-
134.
—. (forthcoming). “Richard Hoggart, Cultural Studies and the Demands of
the Present” in Richard Hoggart and Cultural Studies, ed. Sue Owen,
(Palgrave).
xliv Introduction
Notes
1
See also Hoggart, 1993, Chapter 4: “Great Hopes From Birmingham”.
2
1963, 241-42. He elaborates the distinction between literary and sociological
method in “The Literary Imagination and the Sociological Imagination”. Given as
a talk to the Sociology Section of the British Association at its 1967 annual
conference, distributed as a pamphlet and reprinted in Speaking to Each Other,
Vol. II, 244-258.
3
For a detailed rebuttal of Mulhern see Hall, 2007.
4
See also Hall, “’The Centrality of Culture’: Notes on the Revolutions of Our
Time” in K. Thompson (ed.), Media and Cultural Regulation, (London: Sage and
Open University, 1997).
5
The reference is to Hall, “De-constructing the Popular” in Raphael Samuel (ed.),
People’s History and Socialist Theory (History Workshop Series, London:
Routledge, 1981).
6
“Cultural Studies and The Centre: Some Problems and Problematics” in S. Hall et
al (eds.), Culture, Media, Language, (London: Hutchinson and CCCS, 1980).
7
The reference is to Hall, “De-constructing the Popular” in Raphael Samuel (ed.),
People’s History and Socialist Theory (History Workshop Series, London:
Routledge, 1981).
8
A term applied to him by leftists at the CCCS (Hoggart, 1993, 98).
9
Gregg (forthcoming). See also her Cultural Studies’ Affective Voices (London:
Palgrave, 2006), Chapter 2: “Activating Empathy: Richard Hoggart, Ordinariness
and the Persistence of ‘Them’ and ‘Us’”.
10
See my “Hoggart and Women” in Richard Hoggart and Cultural Studies, ed.
Sue Owen, (Palgrave: forthcoming). Here I also engage with feminist criticism of
Hoggart.
RICHARD HOGGART:
A PERSONAL APPRECIATION
DAVID LODGE
This is the special refuge of the misfits and left-overs, of the hollow
cheeked, watery-eyed, shabby, and furtively sad. An eccentric absorbed in
the rituals of his monomania sits between a pinched unmarried brother,
kept by a married sister for the sake of his war-pension, and an aged
widower from a cheap lodging or a house smelling permanently of old tea
and the frying-pan. They come in off the streets, on to which they had gone
after swilling under a cold-tap and twisting scarves round collarless necks:
they come in after walking around a bit, watching other people doing
things, belonging somewhere. If a bench in the paper-strewn square is too
chilly, they come in after a while to the warmth they have been looking
forward to. A few make for one of the items of sect-journalism and resume
their endless cult-reading; some-shifty and nervous of detection, or with a
bland and cheeky skill-plot how to win on the pools or mumble through a
rough sandwich; some turn leaves aimlessly or just sit and look at nothing,
picking their noses. They exist on the periphery of life, seeing each other
daily but with no contact. Reduced to a handful of clothes, a few primary
needs and a persistent lack, they have disconnected from the only kind of
life in which they ever had a part, and that was a part unconsciously
accepted; they have no conscious arts for social intercourse. (Hoggart,
1957, 60-61)
My own background was lower-middle class, and London not Leeds, but
the stance of writer to milieu in The Uses of Literacy was similar to what I
was trying to achieve in my novel. In fact it is now clear, in hindsight, that
David Lodge 3
all three of the books I have mentioned-The Uses of Literacy, and The
Picturegoers–belonged to the same seismic shift in the English literary
landscape in the 1950s.
This is often discussed under the headings of “The Movement” or “The
Angry Young Men”, but it was a much larger and more complex
phenomenon than those labels suggest. Basically it was the displacement
of a literary establishment that was constituted of ageing remnants of pre-
war modernism, Bloomsbury, and bohemianism, that was predominantly
middle to upper-middle class, public-school and Oxbridge-educated,
domiciled in central London or the country, and enamoured of Abroad-the
displacement of this literary establishment by a new generation of writers
who were working class or lower-middle class in social background,
beneficiaries of free secondary and tertiary education under the 1944
Education Act, often the first members of their families to go to university,
suspicious of inherited power and privilege, critical of all forms of
snobbery, hypocrisy, affectation, rank-pulling in social life, and of
pretentiousness and wilful obscurity in art and literature. The writers of
this new wave were interested in telling the truth as they saw it, life as it
was actually lived in post-war England, especially in places largely
neglected by the most prestigious writers of the 1940s – northern industrial
towns, dull suburbs, provincial universities. Lucky Jim, Look Back in
Anger, Room at the Top, A Kind of Loving, The Loneliness of the Long
Distance Runner, The Less Deceived, Roots, A Taste of Honey, This
Sporting Life, were some of the key works by this new literary generation.
Only a few of them could be described as masterpieces, but collectively
they made a difference, and many of them were made into successful
films, which increased their cultural clout. It was essentially a new kind of
realism in English writing, responding to changes in English society
triggered by the Second World War and the foundation of the Welfare
State. In due course it ran out of steam and was superseded by writing that
was formally more various and experimental, but at the time it had a
transforming effect on the literary landscape.
The Uses of Literacy was I believe a key work in that phenomenon.
Though not itself a work of fiction, it validated many of the characteristic
fictional enterprises of the period. It provided a kind of moral and
sociological justification for dealing truthfully and realistically with
ordinary life, especially urban life, and it encouraged young writers whose
social backgrounds had nothing special, exotic or glamorous about them,
to write about their own experience, which was often the experience of
being detached from their roots by education, without feeling they really
belonged in the bourgeois world into which they had been promoted. “The
4 Richard Hoggart: A Personal Appreciation
I was perhaps less diffident than Alan Bennett. I had already completed
one novel, mercifully unpublished, and was halfway through my second,
when I came across The Uses of Literacy, but reading it confirmed my
faith in what I was trying to do in The Picturegoers, and fed into its
continuation and revision (which took some time because I was
researching and writing a very long thesis at the same time). I was
particularly interested in trying to render through my characters the ways
in which the often meretricious products of the film industry related to the
real concerns and experiences of ordinary people, how the cinema
provided for some a kind of dreamworld of escape or wish-fulfilment that
might be compared and contrasted with the consolations of religious belief
and worship; how even for those who recognized the falsity of the movies’
representation of reality the films they saw nevertheless provided models
for negotiating and making sense of their lives.
Richard Hoggart was of course concerned with the written and printed
word in his book, and only incidentally with other media, but the kind of
attention he brought to the examination of the reading matter of working
class people-cheap magazines, pulp fiction, tabloid newspapers, etc-had a
similar orientation. Instead of dismissing it all as corrupting rubbish, in the
manner of the Leavises and their disciples, then the dominant school of
English criticism and one to which he owed a good deal-Hoggart studied
this material carefully, made discriminating judgments and distinctions,
discussed the way it was received and interpreted by its audience, and
demonstrated that the products of mass culture as well as high culture were
well worth studying for what they revealed about the interface between
culture and society. I had encountered nothing like this since I discovered
David Lodge 5
autobiographical-as he has done to our great benefit and pleasure these last
forty-odd years. But those writings lie outside the chronological boundary
of my brief-the fifties and sixties, two decades on which he left an
indelible mark.
Works Cited
Bennett, Alan, (2004). The History Boys. London: Faber and Faber.
Hoggart, Richard (1957). The Uses of Literacy: Aspects of Working-Class
Life, with Special Reference to Publications and Entertainments.
London: Chatto and Windus.
—. (2005). Promises to Keep: Thoughts in Old Age. London: Continuum.
RICHARD HOGGART:
THE INTELLECTUAL AS POLITICIAN
FRED INGLIS
point is, for the time being, historical: the British, according to their own
traditions, are a steady people. No doubt they are nowadays less steady
than they were–angrier maybe, more tearful, in any case their emotions
less sure, contained and assignable. But, one judges, they are steady
enough to reject apocalypse, to accept a deceleration in progress, and the
grands récits having proved themselves illusory and good riddance, too,
are now prepared to fashion a religious sense out of a sufficient number of
good lives and to put together a picture of the good society in terms of
what seem to be those best values in the present which may be capable of
projection into a not-very-distant future. Given the hideous things done by
Fascism, Communism and Liberal Capitalism on its bad days also, and
done to the present in the name of a dementedly imagined future, it will be
prudent to keep our vision of possibility for the good society down to a
horizon no further away than our grandchildren's old age.
MacIntyre himself has come to think that any such view of the moral
life commits him, at least, to theism. His moral vocabulary, however, is
held in common with the great tradition of the British idealists, the
tradition of T. H. Green and his pupils which led directly to the low-key
philanthropic and humanitarian liberalism of the early Fabians and their
comrades in LSE sociology. In his fine chronicle of one such avatar,
Stefan Collini ends, with particular emphasis on the intellectual leadership
of the school of L. T. Hobhouse by observing bleakly:
Hobhouse, for Collini, is eponym for the high-minded, idealistic (in both
senses), public-spirited application of a moralised scientism to the building
of national progress which was terminated by the First World War.
One riposte to this is that, by way of Beveridge's report, Mannheim's
reconstruction theory, Collingwood's historicism, Keynes's emergency
economics, and Crosland's egalitarian politics, British idealism held up
and held sway until the colossal ruptures in world economics caused by
the end of world empires and the beginning of world history. But this is
not the time for such arm-waving generality. MacIntyre himself notes that
in its political form, Aristotelian rationality is
II
As I began by suggesting, biography is the form most readily (and
popularly) capable of first comprehending and then enshrining such a
social drama. (By biography, it should be plain I do not only mean as
written down in books, but also as lived in gossip, family history, as well
as in the family history of a nation whether in libraries or as broadcast by
radio and television.) Such a formulation takes in the often dreadful
phenomenon of celebrity, for amongst the spite, envy, lies and hypocrisy
of celebrity narratives, there are ringing tales of good lives lived in public
and to the edification of others, probably best seen when enough years
have told and tolled on their subjects.
Those lives are then gathered into our 'narrative stock' and arranged in
such a way as to enshrine a configuration of moral ideas about how to live
well. This is less a matter of the influence of particular characters, which is
incalculable, still less of moral examples one might try to emulate, or–if
that is what the repellent phrase intends–of 'role models', on which dizzy
youngsters may fasten so uncritically as to suppose that if the r-m takes
heroin or gets plastered seven nights a week, then it's just fine to do the
same.
The configuration of moral ideas dramatised by good lives isn't a
matter of copying others. Such lives come through from the past as "lines
of force for transformation" (Anderson, 1980, 98). The virtues they
enacted are made available as a moral resource to the lives of later
generations. If those virtues fail to find their dramatisation in a sufficient
number of subsequent generations, they may, as John Stuart Mill pointed
out, lapse altogether, as has happened, for better and worse, to chivalry
and chastity. Insofar as a virtue keeps up its connection with the future as
having been enacted, each in its peculiar way, in assorted biographies, it
can be earthed in new lives and, charging those lives with its fierce
current, release a quite new dramatisation of its energy, the virtue being
transformed (but still itself: courage is courage on the Somme, at Harfleur,
or in the Trojan ditch), transformed, I say, by the action of a new life.
Fred Inglis 15
To take the force of such a lesson we need good lives to celebrate and
understand, lives which sustain by example this kind of conversation as it
is practised in civil and domestic life.
The example to hand is the life of Richard Hoggart, and work, as well
as the works, as constitutive of that life and its exemplary force. In this
special account of the relations between character and career, it must of
course be the case that the individual is not to be thought of according to
the expressivist and Romantic tradition as an impossibly singular rarity
(allowing the pleonasm to pass) freed from membership of social
structure, but as a citizen of many and interlocking forms of institutional
life, the family, the social class, the academy, the committee, the
international bureaucracy. In saying this, however, I am saying no more
than the ontologically obvious, and nothing is thereby remitted of the
propriety of paying affectionate and admiring tribute to that same brave
citizen, earnest and timely moralist, wise and amused commentator, loving
parent, husband and neighbour, faithful patron of that incomparable
location of Englishness, the plateful of bacon, sausage, eggs, mushrooms
and tomatoes.
Writing in these terms, one needs not so much a literary as an
anthropological idiom. That is to say, if we were to turn to Hoggart's
volumes on the shelves, a ready way of treating them as in a 'Life and
Work' textbook offers itself, according to which one would go through
them in a more or less chronological order, starting with the book on
Auden, treating The Uses of Literacy (quite rightly) at greatest length as an
English classic of social commentary, and taking the rest as they came, the
book on Farnham as, perhaps, a winning detour from the main lines of
intellectual advance, The Way We Live Now as a mature commination on
the coming society presaged in The Uses of Literacy as one which would
Fred Inglis 17
Hoggart doesn't just contrast with this ineffable manner; nor does he ever
go in for that other, demotic way of refusing upper class demeanour as
acted out by the determinedly bad manners, worse faith and fake outrance
of columnists in The Daily Mail and such as Melanie Philips or Janet
Street-Porter. His way of answering the demands of the vast international
bureaucracy of which he was Assistant Director-General, of carrying out
18 Richard Hoggart: The Intellectual as Politician
III
What I am suggesting is that in Hoggart's case, we know from the life
those qualities we find to admire in Hoggart, and that the life is a happy
instance of the art of living, if the phrase can be emptied of rather riminy-
piminy, fin-de-siècle associations, and turned into a robust component of
what might as well be called a non-theistic religion. To substantiate, sotto
voce, this latter claim just is to instantiate his publicly lived virtues and the
social dramas in which they are embodied, and to take them directly from
the third volume of autobiography, An Imagined Life, which covers the
years from 1959 to its publication in 1992, thereby omitting of course the
six gripping books subsequently published in a show of astonishing
stamina, not to say unstoppable talkativeness. What is more, in treating An
Imagined Life directly, as a work of art for sure, but also as a truthful and
straightforward testimony (the title notwithstanding), I am claiming
something about its (and its author's) civic and civil being and essence. As
with a great novel, a noble still life, a solo instrumental suite, the absorbed
reader of An Imagined Life grows slowly more familiar with Hoggart's
way of being an Arts Council or Pilkington Committee member or witness
for the defence of D H Lawrence or a cultural diplomat, and finds, in
growing so familiar, his or her own subjectivity opened and contrasted
with the one on the page.
That there is art in the rendering of that solid presence is certain, but it
is a kind of art peculiarly unamenable to the ineffable superciliousness of
deconstructive method, of which the only dependable conclusion is that
Fred Inglis 19
the methodist knows better than the writer what is going on. Our author
knows very well what is going on, and knows it precisely because of that
hard schooling in love and detachment, dependence and loss, that local
rootedness (a word impossible to use disapprovingly) and blithely
venturesome taking-of-the-opportunity, which are so vividly presented in
the first two volumes.
One could not do better than begin with this little anecdote at the
beginning of the volume.
One evening in the Middle West of America, after I had given a lecture
(about educational changes in Britain, not about anything I had written), a
young woman came up and spoke in the way I have described. She was a
lecturer at the local land-grant university. She had been brought up in a
back-to-back house in Newcastle. I said I was going there in a few weeks'
time; she asked me to call on her widowed father to confirm she was well
and happy. After finishing the work in Newcastle I had an hour before the
train south, took a taxi to the address and knocked on the door. Her father
opened it and said simply: 'Oh, you've come then.' (1992, 8-9)
So the main currents of my interests have been the right of wider access to
higher education, the need for wider access to the arts … and as a support
to all this, the best uses of mass communications. (1992, 26)
… speaking with love and anger to his own people: 'You live badly my
friends; it is shameful to live like that' … (ibid)
Before he came in, I was deputed to invite him to give an opinion on the
foolish, false comparison which had been made again and again: 'We aim
to give the people what they want, not what we think is good for them.'
The programme companies–Granada with most conviction and more
convincingly than others–officially rejected that argument. But the tawdry
standard was unfurled by shabby entrepreneurs and titled public figures
alike in defence of whatever their commercial television transmitted; low
populism masquerading as democracy. Eliot paused a moment on the
question and then produced, in a voice with hints of Kensington, the
Middle West and New England, a sentence so finely phrased that you
could easily identify the semi-colon before the final assertion: 'Those who
claim to give the public what the public want–(pause)–begin by
underestimating public taste; they end by debauching it. (1992, 69-70)
This is his cue for summarising the committee's agreed view as radically
critical of the workings of commercial television, noting as he did the
effrontery of the tricksters who got away with the adjective 'independent'.
The Chairman agreed, the Government was angry, television was
unmistakably improved by the Act of 1964, and Hoggart was justifiably
gratified by much later turning up on Mrs Thatcher's hit-list.
This is what it is to sustain a moral tradition and the socially ratified
principles of rational inquiry which embody it and are only intelligible in
relation to the question, what is the common good?
That question was dizzily enlarged by Hoggart's move to Paris and
UNESCO. One point is worth making first about this man's Englishness
and how bluntly that must have been challenged by living in another
country, servant of an international organisation, assigned obligations
nonetheless by his home government.
He declines the obligations in the name, on one occasion, of common
humanity, resisting a minister's bullying of his junior official; on another,
of an instinctive detestation of English racist arrogance (1992, 149-50).
Hoggart's English class identity, the politics of his politeness, rejects a
different, repellent version of English class identity. That class identity of
his, deepened and extended by the vast strength of the national literature,
was further toughened by life in that most "ingenious and resolute of
armies" (in Edward Thompson's words, 1980, 131) "which became"
(Thompson goes on) "an anti-fascist and consciously anti-imperialist
army", but was given its essential shape and composition by his
Fred Inglis 21
grandmother, his brother, and the lost, harsh, close neighbourhood around
33 Newport Street.
'Community' is become almost a canting word. For some, as a social
value it is now radically attenuated by–to speak blankly–the tidal waves of
new technology and old capitalism. The trouble is that when the term
'values' enters either media opinionation or social theory the values
themselves remain chronically underdescribed, and are largely used as
sonorous chords in a threnody on decline. This is markedly true of
'community', and Hoggart is here strong on two counts. First, he finds
plentiful signs of community's continued thriving, as in the splendid
Townscape with Figures; second, he sees, none clearer, the small-
mindedness and bigotry which also may attend upon community, so that
his narrow little island itself comes to seem, after the years in Paris,
'snobby' and 'grey', caught in a mixture of amusement, fondness and
exasperation by this anecdote about his return to university life from Paris
in 1975.
I went up early to see friends at Birmingham and, walking into the Senior
Common Room with them after almost five and a half years, met that
familiar but always slightly surprising collapsing of time towards one who
had been away by others who have stayed. 'Hello,' they said, 'haven't seen
you for a while. All right?' (1992, 173)
Dewey's phrase (1929, 110 ff), its displacement of public ethics into
technology by way of C. S. Peirce's "science of prediction".
These gestures at the history of ideas most likely to deprave and
intoxicate Western modernity give the lie to any attempt to lay claim to a
tradition of Anglo-pragmatism or to place Hoggart in it. He remains such a
compelling figure partly because he rejoins us to the hopeful innocence
and trust in the truths of historical experience as embodied in the lives of
such as Mill, Green, Keynes, Leavis, Tawney, Titmuss (the last two
invoked by Hoggart himself as moral examples). But he is also exemplary
because of the work of art which time, chance, history ("picked up by the
tide") and character enabled him to make of his life. Relevant to this is the
metaphysical presence of his self-knowledge.
Any value shades into other values, which is why historical contextualisation
is so necessary a method if we are to learn from the past–the pastness to
hand being this one career.
As one reads and recalls the life, the conviction grows that its passages
and accomplishments are the exhilaratingly happy consequence of
accidents and decisions on the part of the one man who could have made
such a triumph out of them. Hunslet, Leeds University, Naples, Marske,
Leicester, the CCCS, Paris, Goldsmiths, Farnham, Norwich: no wonder
that it is the truths and beauty of art which Hoggart most wanted to bestow
on his people, truths and beauties which, as he says, they wanted for
themselves if only they could get the chance to find them.
In 1982 Hoggart organised a seminar at Goldsmiths which collected
together some modest amounts of what he himself would hate to call
'market research'. It issued in a short book (Hoggart, 1982).
For me, the most surprising and encouraging result of the surveys made for
the From Policies to Practice book was the evidence it gave of why people
wanted more provision of adult education. We had guessed the unmet
demand would be large but not as large as it turned out to be. We had
assumed, especially because of the hard-headed mood of the new
government, that much of the demand would be for vocational training and
retraining (evidence from 1991 suggests that vocationalism is now
Fred Inglis 23
dominant). We had hoped there would still be some demand for adult
education for the old high purposes. What we did not expect, back in '82,
was the weight of people giving that last sort of reason. They used old-
fashioned, value-laden, beautiful phrases, usually rather tentatively. They
wanted more education so as to be more 'whole', so as to 'understand better'
the world or society or themselves, so as to 'broaden' their minds, so as to
have 'fuller' lives, more 'enriching' experiences. You wanted to throw your
hat in the air. They were not at all talking like the images thrust on them by
the persuaders of modern life, did not see themselves–they positively
refused to see themselves–as 'consumers', 'clients', self-seeking atoms,
'targets' for politicians or advertisers, 'audiences to be delivered'. They
recalled a wonderful phrase of Coleridge which I quote often: 'Men, I
think, are to be weighed not counted'. That rings down almost two
centuries and makes today's fashionable phrases about the nature of
society, of the individuals within it and of our judgments on its purposes,
show as the tinsel they are. (Hoggart, 1992, 214-5).
(nobody's perfect), will do to indicate the direction of this idea; the reader
can readily compile a rival rollcall.
These names, with Hoggart's at their head, serve to rebut present
convictions about the shallow foundations of personality in public, and
still more, dismiss by example the more strident assertions about identity
as being immitigably racial or class-based or negotiated or otherwise out
of the reach of mind and manners. These selves are marked by history and
class and all that, for sure; but they are the product of those best
dispositions their possessors (being self-possessed) found themselves to be
capable of, and turned into their characters, on their own behalf and in
duty towards their shared conception of the common good.
Such a concept of selfhood has become less common in consumer
modernity, and is shouldered out of the way by notions of self-invention,
self-discovery, freedom from social structure and other slogans of radical
individualisation. But the good life is given unity and meaning to the
extent that the virtues exhibited in it are virtues in all possible
circumstances–at home, in intellectual composition, in a television
interview, in the university or in UNESCO. Eminence itself inflects the
enactment of the virtues. It is the importance of Richard Hoggart's life that
it justifies by its mere existence the claim that the pre-modern conception
of the virtues still lives and moves within its tradition. The damnable thing
about the concept of a tradition is that it has become monopolised and
disfigured by the Right. In urging that, in Leavis's phrase, Richard
Hoggart's is a name that, in these days, we should peculiarly honour, I am
intent upon the calm consistency with which he incarnates both domestic
and intellectual virtues as these are livable in our time. Domestic love, the
love of art, intellectual straightness and stubbornness, a vigorous
egalitarianism, absolute hostility to what is shameful, corrupt and wicked
in people's lives and the life of the times, unfailing courtesy, a keen sense
of the ridiculous … these qualities are very far from being fragments to
shore against ruined lives, and modern Britain is far from being a
wasteland. They are strong and active, as we have seen, and we had better
keep them in as good repair as Hoggart has.
Works Cited
Anderson, Perry (1980). Arguments within English Marxism. London:
Verso.
Collini, Stefan (1979). Liberalism and Sociology. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Dewey, John (1927). The Public and its Problems. New York: Holt.
Fred Inglis 25
Notes
1
I borrow here from Richard Wollheim, The Thread of Life.
2
MacIntyre (1998, 132-4). This argument is identical with that of Clifford Geertz,
in his Negara: the theatre state in 19th century Bali (Princeton, 1982). See also my
Clifford Geertz: culture, custom, ethics. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000, 107-132.
THE LEGACY OF RICHARD HOGGART:
EDUCATION AS DEMOCRATIC PRACTICE
JON NIXON
Introduction
The quotation with which Richard Hoggart concludes his (1951)
“introductory essay” on W. H. Auden is an apt reflection upon his own life
and work. After fifty years as a public figure, his work still has the
capacity to arrest and challenge. At its best, it remains “novel still and
immensely ambitious”. Moreover, the Hoggart corpus is still in the
making, and continues to challenge and let new light break. In this chapter
I shall focus on Hoggart’s legacy as a public educator with reference to the
broad span of his writing. While he has written specifically on educational
topics, that legacy cannot be restricted to this particular strand of his
thought. It is the whole life, the complex idiom, and the unswerving
commitment, to which we must look for an appreciation and understanding
of that legacy.2
For my generation of educators, setting out to work in schools,
colleges, polytechnics and universities in the late 1960s, there was no
“before Hoggart”. We grew up already in his long shadow. Along with
Edward Thompson and Raymond Williams, he had already set the
political and moral agenda for those concerned with the development of
education as democratic practice. The Uses of Literacy (1957), along with
The Making of the English Working Class (1963) and Culture and Society
(1958), were the indisputable starting points from which we took our
bearings.3 Of course, other influences were to feed in: The New Left
Review, identity politics, briefly (and perhaps ashamedly for some of us)
the politics of the “the third way”.4 But Hoggart stood his ground, was
always there, sometimes in places that we would have preferred him not
Jon Nixon 27
be, and pointed a way forward. His was a life to be reckoned with, an
idiom to be challenged and understood, and a commitment that set the
agenda.
This chapter argues that Richard Hoggart’s legacy as public educator is
to be found in the moral unity of his life and work: his life as an adult
educator, university professor, and international administrator; his
distinctive idiom as writer and critic; and his commitment to education as
a deeply deliberative process of widening participation. The right use of
judgement is central to the life, the idiom and the commitment. As an
abiding presence, Hoggart is an exemplar of how critical discrimination
and discernment can be deployed, from the centre ground, in the interests
of the good society. Holding that centre ground, from the liberal,
humanistic and secular position that Hoggart occupied, was not without its
ideological and political tensions. Central to the life, the idiom and the
commitment was the steady insistence on holding the tensions in albeit
uneasy unity, on keeping the argument going beyond the sharp points of
disagreement, on finding a democratic and deliberative way forward.
Much has been written of late regarding the crisis of democracy. For
example, Jacques Rancière, the eminent French philosopher, argues that if
democracy is to be understood as the power of the demos, then the
dominant regimes of western democracy are not only mistrustful of that
power but constitute an organised “hatred of democracy” (Rancière,
2006). That hatred presages “the end of politics” insofar as politics is
understood as “the power of the people” (Rancière, 2007, 5-37).
Democracy so conceived can, and does, Rancière maintains, “provoke
fear, and so hatred, among those who are used to exercising the
magisterium of thought”; but, as he goes on to argue, “among those who
know how to share with anybody and everybody the equal power of
intelligence, it can conversely inspire courage, and hence joy” (Rancière,
2006, 97). The legacy of Hoggart as public educator contributes modestly,
but significantly, to these resources of courage and joy, through its steady
insistence on education as a democratic and deliberative process to which
anybody and everybody can contribute.
ourselves that his early work as an adult education lecturer was highly
formative. In a talk given to the Annual Conference of the Society of
Teachers of English, in April 1952, he reveals the extent to which his
thinking about poetic form, critical method, and the practicalities of
teaching, are mutually supportive of his broader vision of education as
deeply democratic:
In this whole part of our discussion we touched on one aspect quite often,
and almost wholly ignored another. We talked a good deal about
“reinforcement” through broadcasting, through current affairs, plays,
situation comedies and almost anything else. We talked about
broadcasting’s tendency to legitimate authority. We heard almost nothing
about what audiences take from programmes, what they do with them;
about what happens inside individuals. There is a useful comparison with
literary criticism of popular fiction here. Early criticism tended to assume
that what an educated reader found in popular fiction – the conventional,
Jon Nixon 29
trite and stereotyped – exactly reflected the lives of those who read it, that
there was an unselective and uncritical match between books and readers.
It was C. S. Lewis who, surprisingly, first persuaded me (through his
writing; I did not know him) that people can take good things from poor
literature, that they can select from it rather than being victims of it.
(Hoggart, 1982a, 155-156)
There has always been, for me, the sense of a possible audience, of
someone out there. “Whom do you think you’re writing for?”, I am
sometimes asked, now and again with near truculence. “Who makes up the
“we” you invoke often and with some apparent confidence? Haven’t you
realised that your supposed habitual audiences, “the saving remnant”, have
all but disappeared or been, through professional training, dispersed
beyond reach; that most stick to their own specialised professional reading
nowadays?” (Hoggart, 1999, 181)
and the first person plural: the “I” and the “we” of common parlance. Yet,
his prose is rarely polemical and never makes an emotional appeal to its
readership. It is never strained. Although Hoggart the man is an
unmistakable presence in his prose, it has an impersonality that seems to
speak for and from a wider constituency. After The Uses of Literacy
(1957), his chosen form was the essay.5 Even the sustained argument of
The Way We Live Now (1996), developed across 350 printed pages, is a
skilful weaving together of “occasional” essays addressed to diverse
audiences. The expressive impulse is invariably directed towards the
creation of the conditions necessary for common understanding.
Regardless of audience, he rarely uses specialist language. Indeed, his
vocabulary is uncommonly common. In the passage quoted above, for
example, “truculence” carries weight precisely because of its deployment
in a passage constructed largely around Anglo Saxon, and indeed
monosyllabic, derivatives. Its usage is witty because it associates his
detractors with a word which, in context, is slightly indecorous. It is as if
Hoggart were saying, “I can use words like “truculence”, but I choose not
to, because they are your words not mine, and because they are not part of
my idiom, not part of where I come from or choose to be”. The Hoggart
archive gives ample evidence of the meticulous stylistic redrafting that
went into achieving this kind of effect in even quite minor pieces. The
directness of style is deliberate and hard won. It is the expression, as Fred
Inglis (1995, 158-159) puts it, of “his own exemplarily principled self,
independent-minded, bluntly intelligent and knowing it … – impartial,
clear, confidential, extremely well informed, rational and upright in all
things, specific”.
Common meanings and understandings are, then, central to the
Hoggart idiom. But so, too, is the way in which he positions himself in
relation to the centre ground. Unlike some of the public intellectuals on the
Left who were his eminent contemporaries, Hoggart carried his arguments
into the heartlands of the establishment. By doing so he placed himself in
ambivalent relation to many on the Left who chose to position themselves
in the outposts of the academy or in the vanguard of radical social
movements. He risked, and sometimes incurred, the accusation of
collusion or even betrayal. In an article published in 1977 in New
Statesman he declared: “I am a left-wing social democrat and a gradualist
… I believe in the long, slow, I hope fair-minded haul”. That positioning
was, and is, central to the Hoggart idiom. To hold that position, at that
time, required a steady nerve.
It also required the capacity, and linguistic resources, necessary to go
on arguing beyond the point of partisan disagreement. Moreover, this was
32 The Legacy of Richard Hoggart: Education as Democratic Practice
Her eyes flashed: how else, she asked, does one move forward except
through the battle between firmly held opinions and the refusal to
compromise? Consensus is assumed to be precisely a smudging word for
compromise. The short first answer is that if we all act like that we will get
nowhere, will have a stalemate until someone finally capitulates out of
exhaustion, bullying or the pulling of rank, rather than by a process of
thoughtful exchanging of opinions … Confrontation can be tonic but,
except as a debating device, should be controlled by the overriding wish
eventually to arrive at what you will hope to call, if not the truth, then the
right course in the circumstances. Otherwise the tonic becomes a heady
drug, which can lead to bad judgement … At that point the process has
become a form of creeping mild corruption. (Hoggart, 1996, 285-287)
… events and results … depend for the most part on fortune, which will
not conform to or subject itself to our reason and foresight … [T]o
understand things aright, it seems that our opinions and deliberations
depend upon fortune just as much, and that she involves our reason too in
her uncertainties and confusion. (Montaigne, 1958, 129-130)
This is not to suggest that Hoggart’s world view is in any way fatalistic or
deterministic. On the contrary, he is unswervingly open to future
possibilities. Indeed, “prospectus”–the operational requirements of our
orientation towards the future–is one of Hoggart’s key words. Yet a
disciplined retrospect is always at the heart of his impulse towards, and
organisation of the resources necessary for, that orientation. That too is in
the language and the habitual referents: Leeds, the Grammar School, Aunt
Clara, the “bundles and clusters” (as he came to term them) of the
vernacular (“I wish I could write so that the timbre of that life was carried
in my prose”, he wrote in 1961. See Hoggart, 1973b, 188). Judgement,
34 The Legacy of Richard Hoggart: Education as Democratic Practice
A life-long commitment
The life and the idiom are expressive of a deep commitment to the idea of
education as innately democratic. Education should here be interpreted
broadly. I have referred to Hoggart’s early work in adult education. But his
work with UNESCO, the Arts Council, and the BBC, was also part of an
educative project that aspired to be both democratic and deliberative.
Indeed the notion of “broadcasting” is a fitting metaphor for the way in
which he conceives of education as necessarily “extra-mural”: always
rendering the institutional boundaries permeable, always reaching out. For
Hoggart, that process is not some kind of optional extra. It is a
requirement. Unless education reaches out, it ceases to be educational and
becomes merely a residue of received wisdom, a mechanism of social
selection, and/or a means whereby the elite maintain their power and
control. Whatever is educational about education has to do with this
democratic impulse to connect across institutional and cultural boundaries.
Hence the educational commitment, not just to those institutions
traditionally defined as “institutions of education”, but to civil society as a
whole and to the development of an educated public capable and willing to
participate in such a society.
Educators, Hoggart claims in The Way We Live Now, have a
responsibility to “bear witness”: “not automatically to accept majority
opinion as a value-judgement in itself”, but to cultivate “a self-aware
consciousness, the unwillingness to be swayed by either public fashion or
self-interest” (Hoggart, 1996, 314). But the “witnesses”, he insists, do not
correspond to what (following Coleridge) he terms “a clerisy”, even when
we define the latter in secular humanist terms such as “intellectual” or
“public intellectual”. He holds on, as he puts it, to the idea that
some people in a society “bear witness” but, even more, to the belief that
they are not a special caste, that a society should be fluid and that that
fluidity allows for very many–more than are habitually assumed–to bear
witness, to be among the intelligent lay people who are as important as the
recognised intellectuals, whatever their origins. Such a sense of
responsibility depends on a certain spirit and cast of mind; and those may
exist or be elicited in many people and all parts of society. This is the
major counterforce to the pressures of hegemony. (Hoggart, 1996, 317)
distinguish right usage from specialist usage, which he associates with the
proliferation, and increasing stratification, of the professional middle
classes. Precision, for Hoggart, is not a matter of specialisation. He is also
suspicious of, as he puts it, “that range of words which suggest a wish,
probably unconscious, to evade reality; and judgement”: words and
phrases such as “liquidate”, “take out”, “friendly fire” (Hoggart, 1996,
161). Those who “bear witness” spot their own recurrent images and are
alert to the linguistic usage of others. They are, as Lakoff and Johnson
(2003) put it, attuned to the “metaphors we live by” and to the ways in
which those metaphors shape and sometimes distort our view of the world.
A commitment to education as democratic practice involves a deep
entanglement with the exactitudes of communication. Saying what you
mean and saying it in such a way that others will grasp what it is you
intend to say is central to the democratic process. It is not just literacy that
matters, but the uses to which we put literacy and the moral ends and
purposes that are involved in that usage.
Language is the point at which the political project of social democracy
confronts the moral project of respect for one’s self (the way one says
things) and respect for others (the way they understand things). In this, as
in so many respects, it is difficult not to see Hoggart as a child of his time.
Against the allurements of modernist rhetoric and stylistic complexity,
Hoggart (1973b) affirms the Orwellian values of plain speech and Auden’s
insistence on the need to “undo the folded lie”. In his essays on these two
authors, he commends Auden’s later poetry for being “both warm and dry,
exceptionally elegant, civil and agreeable” (83), and responds with “a
feeling of relief” to Orwell’s written style “because it refuses to pussyfoot
… It has a distinctive kick and energy” (117). He wants not only to tell it
as it is, but to tell it in such a way that others will understand and not be
deceived. He wants, as did the best of his generation, to reclaim language
for the telling of truth and in support of right action and for ensuring that
everyone has the wherewithal for discerning the truth and assessing the
moral implications of their own and others” actions.
This is a particularly relevant concern within contemporary society
where the parameters of what in the past might have been seen as
specialist domains of academic thought have shifted radically. Coping
with everyday life involves making choices which necessarily raise
questions regarding, for example, the nature of human dignity and the
balance of moral responsibility that have traditionally been specialist
philosophical questions. As Slavoj Zizek, the renowned Slovenian
sociologist and cultural theorist, has argued,
Jon Nixon 37
looking at, the quality of my seeing and the sense I make of what I am
seeing also matters educationally. Learners are active and sometimes
collaborative agents in their own learning, not just passive and isolated
recipients of what others have learnt and choose to pass on.
Central to Hoggart’s democratic vision for education is his belief that
learning belongs to people not to particular institutional settings. He
considered the state provision of public education to be of supreme
importance, but never assumed that schools, colleges and universities had
a monopoly on learning. His long march through a variety of institutions,
in a variety of roles, is testimony to his belief in the goods of civil society
and the need for the organisational and bureaucratic structures that
underpin and sustain it. For Hoggart, however, the potential for learning is
everywhere; it cannot be confined within school gates, college cloisters or
the ivory towers of higher education. Learning is part of the cultural
groundswell that sifts from the residual the emergent elements: “living
culture recognizes the diversity, the particularity, of all experience. It sits
down before its material, and does not fear being clumsy or gauche so long
as it is in touch with that material. … It does not let virtuosity take over
from virtue, presentation from substance, the “way” of saying from the
“what” is being said” (Hoggart, 1973a, 131). Hoggart trusts–unfashionably,
waywardly, cussedly, but gently–in our capacity to learn.
Conclusion
Stefan Collini (2006) argues, in what he calls the “absence thesis”, that the
English have traditionally been reluctant to admit that they have
intellectuals. Indeed, the claim to be immune to intellectual influence is a
large part of England’s albeit fuzzy sense of itself and of what Collini sees
as a distinctively British “tradition of denial”. “Intellectuals”, as Timothy
Garton Ash (2006) puts it, “begin at Calais”. “British intellectual”, he
claims, is an oxymoron: “The river of colloquial English carries a heavy
silt of mildly pejorative or satirical epithets: egghead, boffin, highbrow,
bluestocking, know-all, telly don, media don, chattering classes, too clever
by half. The qualifier “so-called” travels with the word “intellectual” like a
bodyguard. The inverted commas of irony are never far away”.
In his posthumously published Humanism and Democratic Criticism,
Edward Said coined the term “scholar teacher” to describe his work as an
academic and to distinguish this from his more overtly political activities
as a spokesperson and arbiter for the rights of the Palestinian people.
(Said, 2004, 1-30). It seems an appropriate descriptor of Hoggart’s various
activities within the broad field of education, culture and the arts. Like
Jon Nixon 39
Said, Hoggart has defined his role in terms of scholarship and teaching
even when fulfilling administrative responsibilities. Moreover, he has
always insisted upon the public significance of that role. He has
exemplified in his life and work the public significance of the scholar
teacher: the significance, that is, of scholarship and teaching within the
public sphere. He has crossed intellectual and institutional boundaries; he
has refused to be confined within a particular academic specialism; he has
communicated through a variety of media. He has brought the resources of
persuasion and scholarly enquiry to bear on a wide range of public
concerns. Moreover, he has shown that these resources matter; that they
have the capacity to inform public debate and shape the political agenda;
that occasionally they may even give direction and moral purpose to the
faming of public policy. Educational policy is not just a brokered
agreement as to what works in terms of efficiency and effectiveness. It
constitutes an always difficult, always provisional, agreement as to what
works in practice in terms of whatever a good, or just plain decent, society
we might ultimately settle for.
Forty years on his assessment of the impasse faced by those of us who
work in the higher education sector still holds true:
By now it is possible to see the outline of what ought to be the next great
wave in discussion about higher education … To put it only a little more
melodramatically than it deserves, the question will not be “Should
universities expand?” but “Can universities preserve their essential
freedoms?”. These freedoms are beginning to be eroded not by deliberate
political action nor by conscious wish on the part of politicians of any
party, but by the steadily increasing movement towards a controlled
functionalism, the movement towards making universities into, primarily,
servicing agencies to society’s existing needs and assumptions (most
obviously in science and technology), and the slow withering away of the
idea of universities as centres of free, speculative enquiry about the
assumptions of society itself. (Hoggart, 1966)
The authority, the touch of self irony, the insistence upon getting the
question right, the steady but uncompromising critique, that
unmistakeable sense of moral urgency: these are quintessential Hoggart.
We have his exemplar of a life well lived and lived for the good of others,
his complex idiom played out across the impressive range of his writing,
and his commitment to the goods of civil society. We also have his
prescience, his sense of what the future holds, and his realistic grasp of the
consequences of particular courses of action. Richard Hoggart, the public
educator, leaves as his legacy the enduring idea of education as a way of
40 The Legacy of Richard Hoggart: Education as Democratic Practice
Works Cited
Ash, T.G. (2006. Are there British intellectuals? Yes, and they’ve never
had it so good. The Guardian. (27 April), 31.
Collini, S. (2006). Absent Minds: Intellectuals in Britain. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Hoggart, R. (1951). Auden: An Introductory Essay. London: Chatto and
Windus.
—. (1957). The Uses of Literacy: Aspects of Working-Class Life with
special Reference to Publications and Entertainments. London: Chatto
and Windus.
—. (1966). After the bulge. (Review of Lord Robbins, “The University in
the Modern World”) The Listener. (2 June).
—. (1973a). Speaking to Each Other. Volume One: About Society.
Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. (1st published 1970).
—. (1973b). Speaking to Each Other. Volume Two: About Literature.
Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. (1st published 1970).
—. (1977). Extremism in higher education, New Statesman. (14 October),
505.
—. (1978). Professing the good life (Obituary: Arthur Humphreys),
Guardian (12 August).
—. (1982a). Closing observations, in R. Hoggart and J. Morgan (eds) The
Future of Broadcasting: Essays on Authority, Style and Choice.
London and Basingstoke: Macmillan.
—. (1982b). An English Temper: Essays on Education, Culture and
Communications. London: Chatto and Windus.
—. (1993). Death of a tireless and true radical (Obituary: E.P.Thompson),
The Observer (29 August), 3
—. (1996). The Way We Live Now. London: Pimlico. (1st published by
Chatto and Windus, 1995).
—. (1999). First and Last Things. London: Aurum Press.
—. (2003). Everyday Language and Everyday Life. New Brunswick
(USA) and London (UK): Transaction Publishers.
Inglis, F. (1995). Raymond Williams. London and New York: Routledge.
Johnson, R. (1979). Three problematics: elements of a theory of working-
class culture, in J. Clarke, C. Critcher and R. Johnson (eds) Working-
Class Culture: Studies in History and Theory. London, Melbourne,
Sydney, Auckland, Johannesburg: Hutchinson in association with the
Jon Nixon 41
Acknowledgement
I acknowledge with thanks the assistance of Jacky Hodgson, Head of
Special Collections, University of Sheffield Library, for pointing me in the
direction of relevant documents contained within the Richard Hoggart
archive.
Notes
1
Quoted in Hoggart, 1951, 220. Hoggart quotes these lines again in his 1957
(revised 1966) essay on Auden, “The long walk: the poetry of W. H. Auden”.
(Hoggart, 1973b, 83).
2
Hoggart’s legacy is, of course, broader than that sketched in this chapter. As D. J.
Taylor (2007) points out, “no survey of 1950s social trends … lacks its half-dozen
42 The Legacy of Richard Hoggart: Education as Democratic Practice
BEN CLARKE
My socialism emerged from looking round and deciding that that sort of
life, those sorts of divisions, were simply not good enough, least of all in a
society with the pretensions of Britain. It was a Tawneyesque democratic
socialism which stressed fraternity as the ground for equality and of the
urge towards liberty; it was not theoretic and to have called it ideological
would have been a misuse of language. (1988, 130)
speak to each other. This does not mean that democratic socialism
neglects, for example, economic issues, but simply that the political
struggle is carried out across a wide range of interwoven fields that
influence and modify one another. As Althusser argued, the “philosophical
fight over words is a part of the political fight” (1971, 25). This fight is
concerned not only with the content of critical analyses but also with the
practices of critical texts, their language and methods of persuasion.
Hoggart’s “democratic socialism” does not precede his texts, which then
give it form, but is encoded and enacted in his writing.
Issues of language and communication dominate Hoggart’s work, from
his interpretations of specific literary texts to his studies of the techniques
used by the mass media. His analyses consistently focus upon the
connotations of words, phrases and images, paying close attention to style
and tone. This approach is inseparable from his view of texts, literary or
otherwise, as cultural products. In a discussion of his critical practice in An
Imagined Life, he writes that his “preoccupation was and remains: to try to
develop the closest and most sensitive reading possible of any literary
work in the belief that, read in and for itself, the work might throw a
unique light on the culture within which it had been written.” As he
recognises, this idea relies upon “a belief in the power of language itself as
the most important indicator of a hold on values” and a belief that the
“meanings, the weights, of those words and the sense of common
assumptions would vary in different periods” (Hoggart, 1992, 93) His
analyses of language, literature and culture move between text and
context, exploring not only narratives but also the conditions within which
they are produced and consumed. For Hoggart, literature has a particular
importance as a complex form of expression that provides unique insights
into cultural structures and processes. He argues that “good writer can give
us a sense of the formative but largely submerged currents in an age’s
life”, including a sense “of the way life was lived ‘in the bone’ at the
time—that behind people’s actions and reactions lay this particular sense
of a nation’s destiny, these assumptions about the relations between the
sexes, about class and money and duty” (Hoggart, 1970, 24). Literature
encodes and questions the ideas and values that structure society, exposing
them to critical analysis.
In a 1969 lecture to the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies at
Birmingham, Hoggart outlined the methodology and objectives of what he
described as “literary-cultural studies” (1969, 15). The new subject was
inherently interdisciplinary, drawing on work by historians, psychologists
(particularly social psychologists), anthropologists and sociologists. Its
distinctive contribution to cultural research lay in its use of the techniques
Ben Clarke 45
“might tell us surprising things about ourselves, about other people and
about our and their imaginations” (ibid, 130) As Jonathan Rose argues:
The argument that scholars should analyse a wide range of texts neither
precludes nor resolves questions about their relative value, although it
does challenge the ideas that some of them can simply be disregarded and
that the “established curriculum in English Studies” is a “prescription from
heaven” (1992, 91). Hoggart exposes the canon to debate and
reinterpretation, but his own interventions in these discussions argue that
certain texts do have a consistent value and that it is not only possible but
worthwhile to discriminate between different “levels” of literature.
Hoggart argues that all texts are informed by the culture within which
they are written, whether they reinscribe or question its values, narratives
and rhetorical modes. In so doing, he suggests that criticism itself reflects
and contributes to the cultures it analyses. Just as he argues that literature
“can never be aesthetically pure or abstractly contemplative”, because “its
medium, language, is used by everybody in all sorts of everyday
situations; and because it tries both to say and to be” (1970, 13), so
criticism deploys the narratives and values it interprets. A critical book or
article is a text amongst others, and so potentially subject to the same
interpretative strategies. A close reading of the form and content of
Hoggart’s own writing reveals the way it aligns itself within cultural
debates. This chapter focuses on the political principles his work promotes
and enacts. It explores the narratives he draws upon and persuasive
techniques he employs, arguing that his texts contribute to the kind of
democratic socialism outlined above, founded upon broad participation in
politics and collective decision making, ideally by an educated and
informed constituency. It is a form of political practice, and undermines
the idea the contributions to academic knowledge are neutral or
disinterested.
Ben Clarke 47
The passage identifies two distinct problems with such language. In the
first place it is imprecise, as it consists of self-sustaining tokens that act as
“substitutes for thought” rather than means of negotiating the complex and
specific. The description evokes Orwell’s famous condemnation of an
“inflated style” in which “Latin words fall upon the facts like soft snow,
blurring the outlines and covering up all the details” (1968, 136-7), a style
he argued was better suited to concealing than exposing oppression.
Despite the overt complexity of “theoretical language” it can function as a
series of “counters” that replace rather than clarify critical thought. The
objection is to what Italo Calvino describes as “generic and abstract words,
words that are used for everything, words that are used not to think and not
to say” (2000, 220).
In addition, however, Hoggart focuses upon the way “theoretical”
language appeals to and reinforces the notion of an “inner group”,
confining discussion and debate to a limited community defined by a
particular vocabulary and the educational and cultural background that
sustains it. As Jonathan Rose argues, this strategic use of language
consolidates the identity and position of its users by protecting particular
forms of criticism or artistic production:
One can copyright literary works but not literary genres: though The Waste
Land, Howl, and Of Grammatology are all protected, anyone is free to
enter the business of producing vers libre, beat poetry, or deconstructive
48 Richard Hoggart and the Politics of the English Language
The use of language to exclude and to thereby produce and reproduce the
identity of an “inner group” is not peculiar to the academy, “theory”, or a
particular political position. As the reference to “Marxist jargon”
illustrates, the notion of an “inner group” persists even amongst some who
identify themselves as on the Left. Those who support the idea of a
socialist elite frequently legitimise their position by insisting that a
political movement requires leaders capable of determining collective
strategy, such as the Communist Party described by Marx and Engels as
possessed of “a theoretical insight into the conditions, progress and
general result” of the “class struggle” (1996, 13). The Russian Bolsheviks
provided one model for such an organisation, and the example helped
sustain a variety of small left-wing parties who failed to achieve broad
support, including the Communist Party of Great Britain, which as
Valentine Cunningham observes remained “tiny” even during the political
crises of the interwar period, “with a mere 3,200 members in 1930, rising
to about 11,700 in 1936-7 with the impact of the Spanish Civil War,
mounting on a crescendo of anti-fascist zeal to 18,000 or so in 1939,
before wilting away to 9,000 upon the Hitler-Stalin pact in 1940”
(Cunningham, 1993, 30). The belief that a small group could initiate and
direct revolutionary change ignores Marx and Engels insistence that the
“proletarian movement is the independent movement of the vast majority
in the interests of that vast majority” (1996, 11), and so necessarily
involves not only mass action but mass participation. However, the
implication of both the argument and specialist jargon it sustains is that
there is a particular section of the Left capable, by virtue of their insights
or abilities, of guiding or even directing the actions of the majority in
whose interests they act. This idea has proved influential, and indeed
Stephen Ingle divides the “development of socialism in Britain” into two
distinct traditions, the “moralistic” and the “scientific”, one of which
“seeks to give wider scope to individuals to play a part in the decisions
which affect their lives, holding, almost invariably, that this can only be
achieved in an egalitarian society; and one which believes that although
government must be carried out in the interests of the many, it can only be
managed on their behalf by their superiors” (Ingle, 1979, 10). Hoggart’s
“democratic socialism”, which is interwoven with his belief in “the
importance of the right of each of us to speak about how we see life, the
world” (1992, 26), identifies him with the “moralistic” tradition, although
Ben Clarke 49
This is the special refuge of the misfits and left-overs, of the hollow-
cheeked, watery-eyed, shabby and furtively sad. An eccentric absorbed in
the rituals of his monomania sits between a pinched unmarried brother,
kept by a married sister for the sake of his war-pension, and an aged
widower from a cheap lodging or a house smelling permanently of old tea
and the frying-pan. They come in off the streets, on to which they had gone
after swilling under a cold-tap and twisting scarves round collarless necks;
they come in after walking round a bit, watching other people doing things,
belonging somewhere. (1957, 60)
“the people at the top”, “the higher-ups”, the people who give you your
dole, call you up, tell you to go to war, fine you, made you split the family
in the “thirties to avoid a reduction in the Means Test allowance, “get yer
in the end”, “aren’t really to be trusted”, “talk posh”, “are all twisters
really”, “never tell yer owt” (e.g. about a relative in hospital), “clap yer in
clink”, “will do y” down if they can”, “summons yer”, “are all in a click
(clique) together”, “treat y” like muck”.(1957, 62)
must feel intimately one with the dream that is being presented to him, and
he will not feel this if he has to make an effort to think about the weight of
a word, or puzzle over a nuance, or follow even a moderately involved
sentence-structure. Since these qualities are the results of trying to express
the complexity of a subject, it follows that the personal dramas daily
unfolded in the simplest language are also emotionally and intellectually
conceived in the simplest manner. But the “average reader” (who, for the
publicist after mass sales, must be a hypothetical figure compounded of
three or four key responses at their most simplified) need never feel out of
things. (1957, 166)
The notion of the “average reader”, like that of “the common man”, a
“hypothetical figure whose main value is to those who will mislead us”
Ben Clarke 53
(ibid, 200), both presumes and reinforces the idea of the mass, that “crude
metaphor” which, as John Carey argues, obscures the “intricacy and
fecundity of each human life” (1992, 160). It is a reduction rather than a
reflection of actual readers. Despite the conspicuous differences between
an academic discourse that uses “abstractions as props or crutches” and the
techniques employed by the popular press, both, Hoggart suggests, are
“substitutes for thought”, obscuring the complex nature of particular
communities, practices, conventions, and texts. The language of marketing
and “mass communication”, which is both conventional and imprecise,
reinforces the established values that ensure its own intelligibility. As
Theodor Adorno argues in Minima Moralia, “Vague expression permits
the hearer to imagine whatever suits him and what he already thinks in any
case”(1974, 101). The apparent accessibility of texts addressed to the
“common man” depends upon repetition of what is already “known” and
the absence of any new or critical content.
According to Hoggart, the problem lies in the process of writing itself.
In an analysis of “popular writing”, he argues that the author who
produces such work “does not stand before his experience and try to
recreate it in a form of words, with which—rather than with the writer
himself directly—the reader must seek an understanding according to its
complexity” (1957, 150). Instead, pre-existent patterns of language and
thought structure “his” writing, determining what is represented and the
categories within which it is interpreted. This limits the range of ideas that
can be explored and prevents texts from engaging with the specific
qualities of the experiences they ostensibly represent. In contrast, Hoggart
insists, literature and art engage with experiences or objects themselves
rather than with conventional images of them. His argument that effective
writing should reflect an object that precedes language evokes Orwell’s
claim in "Politics and the English Language" that when “you think of a
concrete object, you think of it wordlessly, and then, if you want to
describe the thing you have been visualising, you probably hunt about till
you find the exact words that seem to fit it.” Both insist on the primacy of
the object or experience described, and indeed Orwell insists that the
writer should “put off using words as long as possible” (1968, 138). There
are a number of problems with this argument. In the first place, it suggests
that the writer “stands before” and contemplates an object or experience
innocent of language, rather than one that is always already permeated
with words and the cultural values they carry. In addition, it implies that
texts can “recreate” experience, as Eliot’s “objective correlative” recreates
a “particular emotion” (Eliot, 1975, 48). Nonetheless, the statement
emphasises the importance of a language that is shaped by the
54 Richard Hoggart and the Politics of the English Language
Works Cited
Adorno, Theodor (1974). Minima Moralia. London: NLB. First pub. 1951.
Althusser, Louis (1971). "Philosophy as a Revolutionary Weapon" in On
Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, 13-26. London: New Left
Books.
Astley, Neil (ed.) (1991). Tony Harrison. Newcastle: Bloodaxe.
Calvino, Italo (2000). "Montale’s Cliff" in Why Read the Classics?, 219-
22. London: Vintage. First pub. 1991.
—. (1993). Six Memos for the Next Millenium. New York: Vintage. First
pub. 1988.
Carey, John (1992). The Intellectuals and the Masses: Pride and Prejudice
among the Literary Intelligentsia, 1880-1939. London: Faber.
—. (1987). Original Copy: Selected Reviews and Journalism 1969-1986.
London: Faber.
Crick, Bernard (1976). In Defence of Politics. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
First pub. 1962.
—. (1988). "Orwell and English Socialism" in George Orwell: A
Reassessment, ed. Peter Buitenhuis and Ira B. Nadal, 3-19.
Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Cunningham, Valentine (1993). British Writers of the Thirties. Oxford:
Oxford University Press. First pub. 1988.
Eagleton, Terry (1991). "Antagonisms: Tony Harrison’s v." In Astley,
348-350.
Eliot, T. S. (1975). "Hamlet." In Selected Prose of T. S. Eliot, ed. Frank
Kermode, 45-9. London: Faber.
Fanon, Franz (1990). The Wretched of the Earth. Harmondsworth:
Penguin. First pub. 1961.
Habermas, Jürgen (1990). Moral Consciousness and Communicative
Action. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Harrison, Tony. "Facing up to the Muses" in Astley, 429-54.
Hitchens, Christopher (2002). Orwell’s Victory. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Hoggart, Richard (1957). The Uses of Literacy. London: Chatto &
Windus.
—. (1969). Contemporary Cultural Studies: An Approach to Literature
and Society. Birmingham: University of Birmingham, Centre for
Contemporary Cultural Studies.
—. (1970). "George Orwell and The Road to Wigan Pier" in Speaking to
Each Other: Volume Two, 111-128. New York: Oxford University
Press.
—. "Literature and Society", ibid,19-39.
56 Richard Hoggart and the Politics of the English Language
Notes
1
Orwell (1970, 28). Significantly, however, Hoggart does not, like Orwell, give
“socialism” a capital letter.
RICHARD HOGGART AND LITERATURE
SUE OWEN
Richard Hoggart was the first literary critic to expand the parameters of
criticism to include popular and working-class culture. From a poor
working-class background himself, Hoggart drew on his working-class
roots as a strength. He was influenced by the work of F.R. and Q.D.
Leavis, and he shared their commitment to great literature and interest in
culture; but whereas the Leavises regarded the masses with suspicion,
Hoggart took the working class seriously. His perception of both “high”
and working-class culture, and of the relationship between the two, was
more subtle and complex than that of his predecessors. Thus, in
“Literature and Society”, he says of his fore-runners, including Arnold,
Eliot and the Leavises:
Popular and mass art is more varied than they recognize (and what
professes to be ‘high art’ sometimes no more than a profession), and the
continuity and change within working-class attitudes more complex than
they allow. (Hoggart, 1973, 30)
What is interesting here is not just the defence of literary criticism as a tool
for understanding society, but a sensitivity to the appeal of popular culture
itself. Similarly, in his Inaugural Lecture at Birmingham University in
1963, he advises humility about what people actually take from popular art
and adds, “Perhaps no one should engage in this work who is not, in a
certain sense, himself in love with popular art” (1973, 242). Thus, he
distinguishes himself from Leavisite cultural elitism; though he also warns
that “Assimilated lowbrowism is as bad as uninformed highbrowism.” It is
all about getting the balance right.
Hoggart is known as the author of The Uses of Literacy, and of other
important works on culture and class, as a key figure in the rise of cultural
studies and founder of the Birmingham Centre for Contemporary Cultural
Studies. Yet Hoggart began as a literary critic and retained a love of good
literature. In his Inaugural Lecture he argues that Schools of English
should pay attention to contemporary culture, but that they must also
remain grounded within literary tradition:
I do not mean that we all need to have read the best books; but what has
the fact that they have been read, and that their insights have to some extent
passed into the general consciousness, contributed to our understanding of
our own experience? (234)
Hoggart argues that language is now too often used persuasively and
manipulatively, not just by admen and P.R. men, but by governments, so
that “the snags and roughnesses of real response have been smoothed
away” (ibid, 236). Schools of English have a double responsibility: on the
one hand, they must separate themselves from this deterioration and insist
on the standards and insights that only good literature can offer; but at the
same time, they must engage with contemporary society and not withdraw
into an ivory tower:
(perhaps especially) about what tone reveals. All this needs to be analysed
more, to be illustrated and enforced–and at all levels, not just in relation to
mass arts. (ibid, 241-2)
We end, with the new material, by reaching a region where nothing real
ever happens, a twilight of half-responses automatically given.
‘Meaningless and niggling’ curiosity is more and more appealed to. But
less and less is there a sense of the fibre of life. And this, for the readers, is
perhaps the worst effect of all. It is not possible that people could
positively, could actively enjoy this; there is nothing for them to be
engaged with, to be positively reacting to. Since nothing is demanded of
the reader, nothing can be given by the reader. We are in a pallid half-light
of the emotions where nothing shocks or startles or sets on edge, and
nothing challenged, or gives joy or evokes sorrow; neither splendour nor
misery: only the constant trickle of tinned-milk-and-water which staves off
the pangs of a positive hunger and denies the satisfactions of a solidly-
filling meal. (1958, 195)
62 Richard Hoggart and Literature
From one point of view, Slim Grissom [in The Corpse Wore Nylon] is the
imbecile half-brother of Kafka’s ‘K’. (undated, 8-30)
The ‘Spike’ of these stories is the slower-witted half-brother of Kafka’s
‘K’. (1958, 221).
This is what characterizes the first part of The Uses of Literacy and is its
strength: an ability to re-create the texture of working-class experience, to
insist on the worthwhileness of working-class people, and to do so with a
combination of love and detachment. For his epigraph, Hoggart chooses an
extracts from Ludwig Lewishohn about critics of mass culture who “have
not affected their fold more profoundly because they have not loved it
enough”, then balances this with what he calls “a warning against
romanticism” from Tchekov: “There is peasant blood in my veins, and you
cannot astonish me with peasant virtues”. Part I of The Uses of Literacy is
a loving, though unromanticized, celebration of working-class people and
their values: tolerance, pragmatism, humour and cheerfulness, straight-
dealing, looking on the bright side, lending a helping hand, not being
stuck-up, loyalty, “goodwill-humanism,” good-neighbourliness, taking life
as it comes, belief in progress. It is these values which are exploited by the
popular publicists as newer, commercial values are grafted onto the old:
ammorality, sensationalism, “bittiness”, shared passivity, fake “palliness”,
the “cant of the common man”. The upshot is that “working-class people
are culturally robbed” (1958, 201). Running throughout Uses is also a
strong thread of celebration of the resilience of working-class people to the
blandishments of popular culture.
F. R. Leavis is said to have remarked on reading The Uses of Literacy
that Hoggart should have written an novel, though Hoggart, referring to
this in his Life and Times, denies any novelistic ability (1991, 206). Yet
throughout Part I of Uses, vivid, quasi-literary descriptions bring the
working class alive. For example, here is Hoggart writing in the mid-fifties
about working-class attitudes to contraception:
Passages like this exactly evoke a mentality which social reportage would
merely stigmatize.
The sympathetic but unromanticized insight with which Hoggart
depicts working-class women has not been sufficiently appreciated.2 The
section on “Mother” in Chapter II, “Landscape with Figures” is one of the
most evocative in the book and contains brief portraits of his own mother
and grandmother which have a vivid detail and resonance. Here, for
example, is what Hoggart says about his mother, a widow and lone parent:
During the years in which my mother had the three of us on her own, she
was never strong enough, since she had acute bronchial trouble, to do any
outside work. She managed with surprising skill on a weekly twenty-odd
shillings from ‘the Guardians’ (some of this was in the form of coupons
exchangeable at specified grocers’). Surprising to a spectator, but not to
her: she had been a gay young girl, I believe, but by this time had lost most
of her high spirits. She was well past the striking of attitudes about her
situation, and though she would gladly take a pair of old shoes or a coat,
she thanked no one for their pity or their admiration; she was without
sentimentality about her position and never pretended to do more than go
through with it. It was too much an unrelieved struggle to be at all
enjoyable, and three young children, always hungry for more food and
pleasures than she could afford, were not–except occasionally–rewarding
66 Richard Hoggart and Literature
These moments are to be valued all the more for their rarity in a writer not
much given to self-revelation. But the picture Hoggart paints of working-
class life is by no means purely autobiographical. It draws strength from
little cameos, such as a glimpse of an older working-class woman furtively
seeking a remedy for a “stone” at a fairground stall (ibid, 31); or from the
truthfulness of attitudes which are both described and evoked: acceptance
of prostitution and suicide; a combination of openness and shyness about
sex, the “feeling of warm and shared humanity” in club singing (ibid, 124).
Sue Owen 67
One is arguing that literature provides in its own right a form of distinctive
knowledge about society …Read in and for themselves, with an openness
to the author’s imagination and art, works of literature give an insight into
the life of an age, a kind and intensity of insight, which no other sources
can give. They are not a substitute for these other sources; to think so
would be foolish. It is just as foolish to think that these other sources can
be sufficient in themselves. Without the literary witness the student of
society will be blind to the fullness of society’s life … Good literature re-
creates the experiential wholeness of life … Good literature re-creates the
immediacy of life … It re-creates the pressure of value-laden life so that–to
the extent of the writer’s gifts and art–we know better what it must have
meant to live and make decisions in that time and place… A good writer
can give us a sense of the formative but largely submerged currents in an
age’s life. From his books, quite apart from their considerable value as
social documents, one of the rewards is this sense of the way life was lived
‘in the bone’ at the time–that behind people’s actions and reactions lay this
particular sense of a nation’s destiny, these assumptions about the relations
between the sexes, about class, money and duty. Occasionally a single
moment, placed at just the right point, brings together and contains within
itself a world of individual and social meanings, becomes a comprehensive
unstated statement about those people and that sense of values (and in so
doing transcends its time and place). (1973, 19-37)
One such moment is the scene where Hardy’s Tess baptizes her
illegitimate baby:
But it is crucial to realize that what makes the scene effective is not that
Hardy overtly makes it ‘representative’, but that he keeps his eye on the
particulars … This is the way art releases its meanings, by looking
honestly at the object until the meaning emerges as if of its own volition,
not by rigging the scene as symptomatic documentation. What the novel
can supremely give is a sense of the texture of life as it is lived; and of the
way in which that texture is all the time shot through with moral choices.
(ibid, 25)
life was lived ‘in the bone’ at the time–that behind people’s actions and
reactions lay this particular sense of a nation’s destiny, these assumptions
about the relations between the sexes, about class, money and duty.
Exactly what he does is to keep his eye on the particulars without rigging
the scene and to give is a sense of the texture of life as it is lived, and of
the way in which that texture is all the time shot through with moral
choices.
Of course The Uses of Literacy is not literature. But I think the book
has suffered from being considered purely as social theory and compared
to other works of theory. The obvious comparison is with Raymond
Williams’ critique of the concept of the masses and mass communication
in the concluding chapter of Culture and Society. Williams, however, does
not share Hoggart’s enthusiasm for the indigenous culture of the Northern
industrial working class, arguing that:
literature may help keep open our sense of the richness of human
experience … all findings, whether in literature or in the social sciences,
must be based on a set of agreed hypotheses, all rest finally on assent
rather than proof, on a common conceptual frame with which we begin to
make sense of the world … So I do not see that a creative writer is
inherently more likely to lead us astray in our understanding of society
than a social scientist. The rules of his kind or work may not be as plan as
those of the social scientist but they are at least as numerous and probably
more tricky. (1973, 249, 251, 254, 255, 257)
He is aware of the faults of literary critics: “Our cultural ideas are too
comfortable, limited and enclosed;” and when moving out to comment on
society directly. “they usually move directly into undisciplined
impressionism” (ibid, 257). In the end, for both literary critics and social
scientists, “we are acting most intelligently when we face valuations, not
when we evade them.” (ibid, 257) His method in Part I of The Uses of
Literacy combines a quasi-literary recognition of “significant detail” with
a recognition and recreation of “the flux of untypical life”. It opens our
sense of the richness of working-class experience. But it also shows an
awareness of traps, such as sentimentalism and impressionism, and tries to
face valuations honestly.
This may be illustrated from what is perhaps the most famous chapter
of The Uses of Literacy, Chapter X: “Unbent Springs: a Note on the
Uprooted and the Anxious”, and in particular the first section “Scholarship
Boy”. This section has resonated with socially displaced readers for many
years, and holds a clue to Hoggart’s own development as a working-class
intellectual. He begins the chapter: “This is a difficult chapter to write”.
(1958, 241). It would be easy for Hoggart either to err either on the side of
subjectivity in this chapter, or to veer to the other extreme of “heartless”
objectivity. But he steers a middle course. The chapter is shot through with
the pain and insight of personal experience, but the personal angle is only
implicit: there are none of the memories which made the section on
“Mother” in Chapter II so compelling. He moves immediately to the
general, the passive voice: “But the people most affected by the attitudes
now to be examined–the ‘anxious and the uprooted’–are to be recognised
primarily by their lack of poise, by their uncertainty” (ibid, 241). “It will
be convenient to speak first of the nature of the uprooting” (ibid, 242).
A further layer of distancing lies in the implied location of himself not
within the anxious and uprooted category, but within the category of the
professionally assimilated:
I have in mind those who, for a number of years, perhaps for a very long
time, have a sense of no longer belonging to any group. We all know that
70 Richard Hoggart and Literature
many do find a poise in their new situations. These are the ‘declassed’
experts and specialists who go into their own spheres after the long
scholarship climb has led them to a Ph.D. There are brilliant individuals
who become fine administrators and officials, and find themselves
thoroughly at home. (1958, 242)
Hoggart did not do a Ph.D. because of the war, though he completed his
MA. He was an established academic and a notable administrator,
however. His discussion of the anxiety of the uprooted seems permeated
by personal experience, yet he insists “the problem of self-adjustment is,
in general, especially difficult for those working-class boys who are only
moderately endowed, who have talent sufficient to separate them from the
majority of their working-class contemporaries but not to go much further
… who have been pulled one stage away from their original culture and
yet have not the intellectual equipment which would then cause them to
move on to join the ‘declassed’ professionals and experts” (ibid, 243). It is
possible that this is an attempt to distance himself from the phenomena of
anxiety and uprootedness being discussed, and to claim objectivity; it may,
equally, be modesty, eschewing any particular claim to the privilege of
exceptional suffering on the grounds others suffer worse.
Hoggart positions himself both as a professionally assimilated expert
of intellectual distinction and as one of the anxious and the uprooted, the
perpetual outsiders whose working-class roots will always show.
Hoggart’s literary criticism draws strength from this doubleness.
Engagement with literature empowered Hoggart as a working-class boy in
his “push for meaning outside the day-to-day” (Hoggart, 1991, 89); and his
status as conflicted working-class intellectual in turn empowered him as a
literary critic. Being an outsider gives him empathy, whilst his intellectual
assurance prevents him from obstacles of class resentment and hostility.
Indeed, his particular combination of social estrangement, intellectual
ability and the particular insight of the displaced gives him empathy with
other outsiders, even those of the ruling class. Literary criticism gives him
a way to engage with the dominant culture. He eschews other possible
positions: the rationalised rage and revenge of the oppressed, the
celebration of liminality; in favour of a sensitive engagement with the
dominant culture, informed by a combination of literary critical finesse
and working-class experience. His literary critical method in turn inspires
all his writings on culture.
This becomes clear if we look in more detail at Hoggart’s literary
criticism. How do his working-class origins and his status as that
contradictory phenomenon, the working-class intellectual, inform his
literary critical judgments? We might perhaps expect the scholarship boy
Sue Owen 71
to bend himself out of shape to prove himself by aping the literary critical
methods of the establishment. But even in Hoggart’s first book, Auden: An
Introductory Essay (1951), we can see him bringing to the topic his
particular combination of literary critical expertise and working-class
insight (Hoggart, 1965). The title is modest: the book runs to over 250
pages and is far more than an essay. It was the first substantial published
study of Auden and received commendation from Auden himself.3
The book exemplified the doubleness I have tried to describe: the
assurance of the literary critical “expert” and the distance of the working-
class outsider. Hoggart’s intellectual assurance means he is sensitive to
Auden’s occasional arrogance but doesn’t feel patronised by it (1965, 15).
Literary criticism gives the former “scholarship boy” tools to make
confident and incisive judgements about the foremost poet of the day: for
example, the analysis of the weaknesses of the early work (ibid, 17); of the
poetic “failure” of “The Age of Anxiety” (ibid, 211); and of the
deficiencies of the post-war output (ibid, 217). These judgments are
confidently grounded in quite skilful literary-critical analysis. At the same
time, Hoggart is able to discern in Auden “the émigré’s pride, that pride
which is the self-defence of the outsider and the rebel” (ibid, 15). This
sounds like the sympathy of one outsider for another. More than anything
else, it is the figure of the outsider that draws Hoggart to Auden, and that
links these apparently dissimilar writers. Hoggart offers a sensitive
discussion of the recurring figure of the wanderer in Auden: “the man
setting out on some positive action, alone” (ibid, 98), his “homesick
isolation and a longing for gentleness” (ibid, 100). He focuses on Auden’s
special interest in the lonely and the lost: “The displaced persons of the
heart are everywhere” (ibid, 119). For Hoggart, Auden is “a spiritual
exile” as well as a geographical exile (in America). But this is an
advantage, as it gives him greater insight and a capacity for intervention:
Previously Auden had often discussed the function of the writer. He had
agreed, for instance, that the artist today must be in some ways an émigré,
but had refused to wear that title like a badge or indulge in the pride of the
odd. He meant to indicate by it the necessity for the artist, as for any
imaginative and critical personality, to refuse simply to accept the terms of
life which his society offers, without questioning the ends which the terms
subserve. (ibid, 139)
Since all writers must be exiles to an extent, the writer who is a social
outsider becomes privileged, turns the conditions of exile to his own
advantage.
72 Richard Hoggart and Literature
At its worst it [Auden’s verse] may leave the reader feeling, among other
things, that he does not belong to the right set …And what was the
ordinary reader to make of the full parade of private references and group
paraphernalia? – the boys’ school and guerrilla warfare props … the
privately weighted symbols and general air of a Boy Scout patrol. These
were characteristic of all members of the group … the group afflatus was
from the leader himself, the head prefect, the cock of the patrol.4
But Hoggart himself is not a victim of exclusion, instead using his insight
as a different kind of outsider to find sympathy and common ground with
the thirties poets; to look behind their “clique-values” for the reasons
behind their “group solidarity” and their “urge to reform” (1965, 21). The
Sue Owen 73
It is true, and has been often remarked, that the Auden ‘group’ were all of
middle-class origin, and that a good deal of their political enthusiasm
seemed to be that of the sensitive middle-class boy who has just discovered
that the charwoman is a person. The guilt was obtrusive … But this is no
more reprehensible an origin for a social conscience than the working-class
boy’s revulsion from poverty: both are emotional starting-points and
cannot legitimately be introduced to judge the final achievement. (1965,
114)
A clue to the thinking behind this attitude in both writers lies in Hoggart’s
explanation of the importance of love for Auden and the evils of self-
regard: “Since ‘Love’ can flourish only in the field of relationships, the
greatest obstacle to its free growth is self-regard” (ibid, 131). Hoggart’s
personal reticence, like Auden’s, may spring from the diffidence of the
outsider but is informed by an explicit psycho-social outlook.
Hoggart’s position as a working-class intellectual gives him a multiple
strengths. It energizes his literary criticism, gives him a “bullshit detector”
and allows him to see class bias. This is clear in his critique of Virginia
Woolf. On the one hand he credits her with capturing the essence of the
scholarship boy: “He is Charles Tansley in Virginia Woolf’s To the
Lighthouse, but is probably without such good brains” (1958, 251).
However, he goes on to rebuke Woolf for her lack of understanding:
The arrogance of that last adjective makes one cringe and Hoggart’s tone
is criticising Woolf for this passage seems restrained.
Woolf is also guilty of failing to grasp the importance of the “material”
for writers from an unprivileged background, for example in her dismissal
of Arnold Bennett:
Virginia Woolf was mistaken to think Bennett’s love of all the thisness of
things and their prices indicated a lack of spirituality, of response to an
inner being. Bennett’s love of objects and their value expressed itself in
some extravagant personal ways (the expensive shirts and all that). But
these things were poetic to him, luminous, vibrating with suggestions of
luxury, of a glamour and a freedom the Five Towns never knew and which
were not merely ostentatious or vulgar. That hat, those gloves, that dress–
whatever they cost a lot or a little and whoever was wearing them–were a
gateway to what a spirit was reaching after, They were, if seen for what
they were, more interesting than disembodied, abstracted, sketchings of
what a pure soul might be imagined to be seeking. (1991, 191)
reverse: “It is plain, from Wigan Pier and from many of Orwell’s other
writings, that he was much of the time trying to cast off his class. But he
always respected certain virtues of that class, such as fairmindedness and
responsibility” (1973, 106). Hoggart’s own class displacement allows him
to see and understand Orwell’s: “He had to try to root out the class-sense
within himself. He did not have a romantic idea of what that last duty
meant; he knew it always means trying to root out a part of yourself” (ibid,
108). However, Hoggart, typically, resists dehumanizing theories:
“Orwell’s attitude was as much personal as representative” (ibid, 109,
note). He sees Orwell as a fellow-exile, like Auden, and resists the
temptation to “classify” him. And he offers an insight about “exiles of
Orwell’s kind”: “All of us may not be able to accept all his moral
solutions; but we are bound to respect his moral stance. For exiles of
Orwell’s kind a moral stance rather than a moral programme is probably
the way in which they speak to a fellow feeling in other me” (ibid, 120).
This might well be applied to Hoggart himself.
As Hoggart summarizes Orwell’s description of poverty in Northern
Britain in the thirties, it is his own passion we hear as well as his own
descriptive words:
He set out to recreate as vividly as he could the shock of this world of slag
heaps and rotting basements, of shabby men with grey clothes and grey
faces and women looking like grandmothers but holding small babies–their
babies, all of them with the air of bundles of old clothes roughly tied up;
the world of the Means Test and of graduates nearly penniless and
canvassing for newspaper sales. This is the Thirties all right, for many in
the working-classes a long-drawn-out waste and misery which only the
preparations for the war of 1939 ended. We may qualify Orwell’s account,
but would falsify history if we tried to qualify it out of existence. These
things happened and not long ago in this country (as they are happening in
many other countries now); and it matters–matters, as Orwell would have
been the first to admit, far more than simply the need to get his record
right–that we should take their emotional measure. (1973, 110-111)
117). The two writers are also comparable in their style, what Hoggart
calls Orwell’s “immediate and demotic voice” (ibid, 118).
As with Auden. Hoggart’s class-position enables both positive and
negative insights. Thus, his own experience of working-class poverty fuels
his appreciation of Orwell, but also his critique. He sees that Orwell
sentimentalizes working-class life, a temptation he warns against in Uses;
and also that Orwell underestimates working-class resilience which is the
subject of the first section of Chapter XI of The Uses of Literacy:
But Hoggart never uses his own working-class credentials to beat others,
and he eschews inverted snobbery. He writes in a generous spirit and
values the truth in Orwell’s work: “It was true to the spirit of the misery.”
(ibid, 112)
Even Orwell’s sentimentality is a good fault: “He was not foolish when
he said that he felt inferior to a coal-miner … He may have sometimes
sentimentalized working-class interiors. But fundamentally he is not
wrong to praise them … And it is not at all foolish – as some have called
it–but it is sensible and humane, to say that the memory of working-class
interiors ‘reminds me that our age has not been altogether a bad one to live
in.’” 1973, (112). Hoggart values the working-class capacity for feeling.
There is a danger of overlooking this in over-emphasizing the dangers of
sentimentality. Thus, he says in “Teaching Literature to Adults”: “In
proscribing sentimentality we may inhibit sincere emotion” (1973, 209).
He sees a need to start from the existing position of adult, working-class
students and also to question the assumptions of middle-class critics and
teachers that excessive sentiment is worse than excessive cynicism: “Our
generation seems to reserve its ‘debunking’ for the ‘debunking’ of
Sue Owen 77
‘A feeling heart’ can often be soft and sentimental, but is not to be derided.
Most of these [working-class] songs express, in their melodies, in their
verses, in the manner in which they must be sung, the ‘feeling heart’. They
touch old chords; they suggest values which people still like to cherish.
Life outside, life on Monday morning, can be a dour affair. Meanwhile,
these sentiments are right, people feel, ‘when y’ get down to it’. The songs
warm and encourage at the time, and no doubt their sentiments remain
somewhere in the memory through all the unsentimental ordinariness of
the working-week (1958, 137).
All this may help to explain why some English readers feel more
responsive to American than to English novels. The English novel usually
presents itself in the tones (and often the properties) of a group. Here one
realizes again, sharply, that when an English reader not of the cultured
middle class seeks to ‘become cultured’ he is led to acquire a culture of a
peculiarly defined kind. He is led to adopt the traditional ways of feeling of
a particular social group. It is easy for such a reader–one, say, from a
provincial grammar-school to feel out of place, even though he may also
admire. There is likely to be some loss, whatever the gains. (1973, 93)
In Russia the authorities fear that to expose their people to the open,
multitudinous play of messages in a ‘free’ consumer society would be to
risk making them dissident (in search of other goals). So Russian teenagers
are not required to be ‘data processors’ on anything approaching the
Western scale. You can see this in the different set of their faces (whether
they are acceptors or rejectors of the status quo) and in their much less
fluid style and gestures. But if Marshall McLuhan is right – and Tom
Wolfe’s success seems to support him – the Russian authorities are
mistaken. The best way to keep their people from seeking alternative goals
would be to flood them with ‘data’, to offer them the chance to become
anxious only about ‘form’, so that they came to believe that goals are out
and poise in. Then they might keep on playing roles endlessly, and
harmlessly–with no political effect. But by God they’d have style! (1973,
135).
Hoggart values plainness and integrity of style and mistrusts posturing and
artificiality. He sees it as desirable “to find a usable plain tone–not an
imitation of an established ‘literary’ voice.” He values “sensitive integrity”
and a “clarity which seems almost like talking to yourself, since no one is
being wooed” (1973, 175).
It is especially important to find integrity of language in representing
working-class life: “The movement, the rhythm, of our kind of life odes
not often get into prose … In this sense, it is more difficult to find your
style if you are from the working classes” (1973, 185). The only person
who has really achieved this in the English novel is D. H. Lawrence:
… its movement, its ‘kick’, its voice, were those of a working-class man
who had become articulate and–instead of acquiring the rhythms foreign to
his deep-rooted ways of feeling–had kept the rhetoric of his kind and so
(this is the point) could better say what he had to say … The moment you
hear it, it sounds quite different from the Forster passage. The words are
used differently; sentences are put together differently; the emotional
keyboard is different. To begin with, it is more direct. … The writing hits
you more, has more attack … It is more dramatic and demonstrative …
Emotions seem more plain and exposed, more in front of you… It sounds
less as though it’s meant to be read than as though a man is speaking. It
reminds me of the talk I heard as a boy in an English working-class home.
(1973, 186-87)
Hoggart sees that the working-class writer’s early striving for literary
voice hampers expression of the authentic working-class poetic voice.
Maturity liberates the “full-throated” working-class voice in Lawrence’s
poetry. Hoggart suggests that a level of acceptance of oneself as working-
class is needed:
elements showed itself, in part, as a search for tones true to their native
temper. (ibid, 99)
Works Cited
Collini, Stefan (forthcoming). “Richard Hoggart: Literary Criticism and
Cultural Decline in 20th-Century Britain” in Owen (ed.) (forthcoming).
Hoggart, Richard (undated). The Abuse of Literacy. Typescript of The
Uses of Literacy. In the Hoggart archive at the University of Sheffield
Library.
—. (1955a). Letter to Peter Calvocoressi of Chatto and Windus Ltd., 27
July. In the Hoggart archive at the University of Sheffield Library.
—. (1955b). Letter to Peter Calvocoressi, 18 Sept. 1955. In the Hoggart
archive at the University of Sheffield Library.
—. (1958). The Uses of Literacy: Aspects of Working-Class Life with
Special Reference to Publications and Entertainments.
Harmondsworth: Penguin. First pub. Chatto and Windus, 1957.
—. (1965).Auden: An Introductory Essay. London: Chatto and Windus.
—. (1973). Speaking to Each Other, Vol. II: “About Literature”.
Harmondsworth: Penguin.
—.“The use of literary criticism in understanding popular art, mass art and
some other forms of mass communication” in “Literature and Society”
in A Guide to the Social Sciences, ed. Norman Mackenzie. Weidenfeld
and Nicolson, 1968. In ibid, 19-37.
—. “Schools of English in Contemporary Society”: Inaugural Lecture,
University of Birmingham, 1963. In ibid, 231-143.
—. “Why I Value Literature” in Times Educational Supplement (1963,
reprinted in The Critical Moment (London: Faber, 1964). In ibid, 11-
18.
—. “The Literary Imagination and the Sociological Imagination.” Given as
a talk to the Sociology Section of the British Association at its 1967
annual conference and distributed as a pamphlet. In ibid, 244-258.
—. Introduction to George Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier. London:
Heinemann, 1965. In ibid, 104-121.
—. “Teaching Literature to Adults”: a collection of short pieces from
various sources. In ibid, 205-230.
—. “A Matter of Rhetoric: American Writers and British Readers” in The
Nation , 27 April 1957. In ibid, 89-94.
—. “The Dance of the Long-Legged Fly: On Tom Wolfe’s Poise”,
Encounter 27:2 (August 1966). In ibid, 122-133.
Sue Owen 83
Notes
1
See also Richard Hoggart and Cultural Studies, (Owen ed., forthcoming). One of
the continuing threads through the collection, which includes essays by leading
scholars in cultural studies, is how the roots of Hoggart's critical practice in literary
studies has been forgotten and need to be revisited. The importance of the volume
rests not only upon its rethinking of Hoggart’s position within cultural studies, but
upon its recovery of the complicated (and in recent terms, largely ignored) relation
between Hoggart's roots in literary studies and his foundation of the new discipline
of cultural studies. The volume therefore contributes to a rapprochement between
cultural studies and literary studies, fields with over-lapping interests and many
common goals.
2
See my “Hoggart and Women” in Owen, Sue (ed.) (forthcoming).
3
About a decade after the book was published Auden told Hoggart he had been
“all in all over-generous” in the book (Hoggart, 1991, 89). See also the letter from
Auden to Hoggart at the end of this volume.
84 Richard Hoggart and Literature
4
Hoggart, 1965, 19-20. In speaking of the “group” Hoggart has in mind not just
poets such as Spender, Day Lewis and MacNeice but also prose writers such as
Isherwood, Upward and Connolly
5
For Hoggart’s own lack of gregariousness see Owen (2005b). He attributes this in
part to being an orphan.
THE USES OF D. H. LAWRENCE
SEAN MATTHEWS
I always find that my critics, pretending to criticise me, are analysing themselves.
—D. H. Lawrence (1988, 240)
Clearly, the event touched on sensitive English nerves: about the limits and
justifications for censorship, about sex, about literature and–bound up with
all those–about social class. It became a setting for these issues to be
publicly laid out and played out to a degree not seen before. In that sense it
focussed certain changes in mid-twentieth-century Britain as nothing else
did; or it seemed to do so–some of the conclusions drawn from it were
mistaken, overdrawn. (1992, 87)
Sean Matthews 87
Censorship, sex, literature and class: these were the most obvious currents
in play in the Old Bailey, and they are, in their interrelations and
complications, the staple concerns of Hoggart’s career. D. H. Lawrence
himself, however, at the level of the influence of his work and his life on
Hoggart’s own writing and criticism, remains oddly absent from the
account. Lawrence–as opposed to Lady Chatterley’s Lover and the Trial–
is, in fact, rarely present either in assessments of Hoggart’s career (Leavis,
Orwell or Auden tend to be most often cited as dominant early influences),
or in narratives of the emergence of Cultural Studies; and yet Lawrence
was a powerful determinant not only on the formation of the Birmingham
Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, but also of the initial
articulation and dynamics of the whole field of Cultural Studies. The
establishment of the Birmingham Centre was only made possible by a
substantial financial commitment from Allen Lane, proprietor of Penguin
Books, a donation made explicitly as a gesture of gratitude to Hoggart
following Penguin’s acquittal at the 1960 Trial (Hare, 1995; Hoggart,
1992, 89-90). The institutional formation of Cultural Studies thus derived
invaluable, if largely unremarked, material impetus from Lawrence’s
work. Equally crucial, and equally underestimated, is Lawrence’s
intellectual influence on Hoggart, and by extension on the disciplinary
articulation of Cultural Studies. What we might, following Foucault, call
the “discourse” of D. H. Lawrence provided means and moment for the
radical changes in the critical and disciplinary paradigms of English
Studies taking place in the decades following the 1939-45 War. Lawrence
provided a unique, if complex and often contradictory, model for a
generation of working-class intellectuals of the 1950s, and yet there has
been little analysis either of that wider story or of Hoggart’s specific, but
representative, case. I therefore sketch in this essay one aspect of that
broader cultural pattern of influence and engagement, tracing Hoggart’s
own relation to Lawrence. Such an investigation serves several purposes:
first, the better to recognise the shape and distinctiveness of Hoggart’s
own work, by coming at it from this less familiar angle; second, to qualify
our understanding of the forces at play in the emergence of Cultural
Studies; third, to add a further current to work already taking place in the
field of D. H. Lawrence studies which examines the later significance of
the writer’s work.4
It is a commonplace to associate D. H. Lawrence with the social and
cultural upheaval of the 1960s, not least because of Philip Larkin’s
conjunction of the Chatterley Ban with Sexual Intercourse and the Beatles’
first LP (Larkin, 1988, 167), but the writer’s influence and importance
were arguably still greater during the 1950s, if less spectacular or
88 The Uses of D. H. Lawrence
doubt due to priorities of emphasis and focus, but also because we lack
criteria or tools for the measurement of such influence, of significance of
this order. I am conscious of the challenge a scrutiny of impressions of
tone and emphasis and voice, as much as facts, offers to our contemporary
theoretical models, although it is also the case that Hoggart’s critical
technique, just as Lawrence’s, is finely attentive to just these issues.6
Lawrence’s status is typically remarked by historians and critics, but
“explained” as a result of the Chatterley furore. The earlier function of his
example as a catalyst for wider changes in the discursive field is
underestimated or overlooked.7 Nevertheless, Sinfield’s “suddenly” is as
suggestive as Widdowson’s acknowledgment of a “revival”.8 The Lawrence
of the 1950s was altogether a new, strong and pervasive presence, and the
issues his writing provoked were strikingly contemporary. In this
perspective, the Chatterley Trial is more properly interpreted as the
culmination, rather than the beginning, of resurgence and change in the
attention to Lawrence. It is in this context that Richard Hoggart’s work,
and his own debt to Lawrence, should be situated.
Lawrence is a continual presence in Hoggart’s writing at the level not
only of direct commentary and analysis, as an object of evidence or
example, but also as a recurrent point of allusion, or of formal, or stylistic,
exemplification. There are even specific biographical parallels: Hoggart,
like Lawrence, was known as ‘Bert’ as a child, and .he grew up in
households dominated by women, later noting the significance of this in
Lawrence’s experience (Matthews, 2007; Hoggart, 2001, 64). In The Uses
of Literacy, it is of a passage from Lawrence that Hoggart thinks when
recalling the “habitual gesture” of his grandmother (1957, 44); when
seeking to ground a judgement or opinion it is often a Lawrentian axiom
for which he will reach.9 Even when not an explicit presence, Lawrence
often reverberates in Hoggart at the level of persistent themes and
concerns, or, less tangibly, simple tone and conviction. It is to Lawrence
that Hoggart routinely returns throughout his career, and even a cursory
attention to the Hoggart bibliography reveals Lawrence–far more than
Orwell–to be Hoggart’s touchstone, and he is writing is studded with
comments on the relationship: “I remember a peculiar excitement when
one day I read the opening of Sons and Lovers”; “Sons and Lovers is still
the only considerable working-class novel we possess–one that is organic,
unpolemical and unpatronizing”; “Lawrence is one of the authors whom in
adolescence I ‘made my own’” (1970, 197, 96; 2001, 49). The composure
and confidence of Hoggart’s testimony at the Trial is predicated on a
profound and comprehensive knowledge of the author’s writing, and an
evident sympathy with what he calls its “distinguishing feature”, the
90 The Uses of D. H. Lawrence
[T]hough we are now a literate people, not everyone reads, say, T. S. Eliot
[...] there might reasonably have been an improvement in the general
standard of reading, in its quality, over the last fifty years; a great deal has
been done to ensure it. And certain developments do suggest that such an
improvement has taken place. But when we look at the increase,
proportionately, in the hold which the simplified and fragmentary
publications have come to exercise during the same period, and at their
failure to be one whit better than the publications of half a century ago, it
becomes very doubtful whether we can claim that there has been any
general improvement in the quality of reading. It seems, rather, as though a
very large number of people are being held down at an appallingly low
level in their reading. (1957, 193)
The people being “held down”, needless to say, are in Hoggart’s account
above all the “working-people”. It is the working class, the ordinary
people, who are, he argues, “culturally robbed” (1957, 201).
There is an immediate reminder of these issues early in Rolph’s
account of the Trial, when he reports the swearing-in of the Jury, and
remarks that five jurists struggled in their reading aloud of the Oath. In
Rolph’s description, such “difficulty or hesitancy” marks them out as
“ordinary men and women”, whereas the other seven are “manifestly
literate and educated persons” (1961, 6). Rolph thus explicitly
distinguishes the “literate and educated” not from, say, those with weaker
or less confident public reading and speaking skills, but from “ordinary
men and women”. Experiments with contemporary university students,
reading the same Oath before a class of their undergraduate peers rather
than a packed Old Bailey, suggest that very few of them might be
described as “literate” in Rolph’s definition of the term. Ironically, his
easy prejudice brings abruptly into focus an issue which dominates the
92 The Uses of D. H. Lawrence
Trial, and is at the heart of the paradigm shift in literary and cultural
studies in the postwar era. Griffith-Jones reminds the jurors that when it
comes to formulating their verdict, educated opinion should be disregarded
if it seems at odds with their own common sense:
Are these views you have heard from these most eminent and academic
ladies and gentlemen, are they really of such value as the views which you
(perhaps, if I may say so, without the eminence and without the academic
learning they possess) hold and can see from the ordinary life in which you
live? (Rolph, 1961, 212)
“I want to pass now to the four-letter words. You told the Jury yesterday
you were educated at an elementary school. Where was it?” – “Leeds.”
“How did you start your life?” – “I was born into the working class and I
was orphaned at the age of eight and brought up by my grandmother.”
“What is your view as to the genuineness and necessity in the book of the
use of the four-letter words in the mouth of Mellors?” – “They seem to me
totally characteristic of many people.” (Rolph, 1961, 98)
The passage anticipates one strand of the Trial, at which the intangible and
unknowable “common sense of the ordinary man” is the elephant in the
room, an elephant Hoggart spent much of his career trying properly to
delineate. He responds to the challenge in several ways, and Lawrence
offered him a crucial resource.
I mentioned earlier my own anxiety, deriving from a formation in the
rigorous scientism of Theory, that attention to characteristics of tone, of
voice, can seem impressionistic and imprecise, and yet it is precisely his
alertness to these characteristics, and Hoggart’s ability to identify and
categorise them, which is the strength of his literary and cultural criticism.
He is sensitive to the ways in which the form and shape of writing, the use
of language, “embodies” tensions between experience or sensibility on the
one hand, and convention, or genre, on the other. He is as conscious of this
in his extrapolations from, and articulations of, his own experience as he is
in discussing the writing of other authors. In his attention to these aspects
of Lawrence’s work, he thus often specifies issues of particular
significance to his own case. In “Lawrence’s Voices”, for example, he
notes how Lawrence’s early poetry offers “an extraordinary mixture of
manners derived from other writers and individual intonations” (1970, 97).
The writing “embodies some elements from his working-class
background” but, “restrictions of form or emotional identity hide it again”.
Reading Sons and Lovers, in contrast, in a remarkable close reading in “A
Question of Tone”, Hoggart is conscious of the voice of “a working-class
man who had become articulate and–instead of acquiring the rhythms
foreign to his deep-rooted ways of feeling–had kept the rhetoric of his
kind” (1970, 197).15 In Sons and Lovers, Hoggart argues, Lawrence
achieves the writing of experience in a voice which remains consistent
with the class and community of his origins, and it is the rarity of that
achievement which gains Hoggart’s admiration: “I am saying that one
would like one’s prose to carry one’s own rhythms, and that to find them
has interesting complications for a writer from the working classes, since
most of his models, his often attractive models, come from and come with
the tones of other social groups” (1970, 199). It is also worth noting that
Hoggart’s own establishment of his critical authority on this occasion is,
just as at the Trial, partly derived from his own comparable experience: “It
reminds me of the talk I heard as a boy in an English working-class
home.” It is this defining opposition between the experience of home,
community and class with the wider world of school, education and
training which, in Hoggart’s classic account, so disables the “Scholarship
Boy” (1957, 242). Hoggart is at his most cautious and self-conscious in
these passages (“This is a difficult chapter to write” 1957, 238), because
Sean Matthews 95
I am not blaming Hoggart for this variety, but since the condition is
general, I am trying to insist on the distinctions we shall all have to make,
if the voice of this generation is to come clear and true. We are suffering,
obviously, from the decay and disrepute of the realistic novel, which for
our purposes (since we are, and know ourselves to be, individuals within
society) ought clearly to be revived. Sound critical work can be done;
sound social observation and analysis of ideas. Yet I do not see how, in the
end, this particular world of fact and feeling can be adequately mediated,
except in these more traditionally imaginative terms. Of course it cannot be
George Eliot again, not even Lawrence, though the roots are in both. But
there, I think, is the direction, and there […] in this solemn, earnest, heavy
voice, that one hears, at the crises, in Hoggart, is a voice to listen to and to
welcome. (1989, 24-9)
I have suggested that on the whole their interest is not so much in the
widely curious as in the narrowly startling and sexually-sensational. What
is worse, this sex-interest is largely “in the head” and eye, a removed,
vicarious thing. It thinks of itself as a smart and sophisticated interest, but
is really bloodless and reduced to a very narrow range of responses;
slickness disguising emotional thinness is no improvement on the older
kind of family magazine. (1957, 183-4)
Sean Matthews 97
Leavis concedes that, “It is one of the difficulties of criticism that the critic
has to use such phrases as the last”. His writing may seem an odd point of
reference for my own conclusion, but his timely and telling account of
Lawrence resonates now for my reading of Hoggart. Literary and Cultural
Studies have moved on from the moment of The Uses of Literacy and the
Chatterley Trial, to a language far more explicit about its technical
ambitions and theoretical self-consciousness than Hoggart’s “solemn,
earnest, heavy voice”, and to critical practices far less attentive to nuances
of voice and tone, or to “the great number of differences, the subtle shades,
the class distinctions, within the working-classes themselves” (Hoggart,
1957, 21), which characterise Hoggart’s work. We tend not to be attentive
at all, except in deconstructive mode, to the great imperatives of
humanism, of “life”, which underpin his moral vision, and we still hesitate
98 The Uses of D. H. Lawrence
Works Cited
Bradbury, Malcolm (1989). “Afterword”” No, Not Bloomsbury. Bury St.
Edmunds: Arena Books. First pub. 1987.
Cox, C. B. (1961). “Editorial Comment: The Teaching of Literature”, in
“Symposium: Pornography and Obscenity”, Critical Quarterly., Vol. 3.
Eliot, T. S. (1951). “Introduction”, in Fr. William Tiverton, D. H.
Lawrence and Human Existence. Barrie and Rockliff, 1951. Tiverton
was the pseudonym of Robert Jarrett-Kerr.
Hare, Steve (ed.) (1995). Penguin Portrait: Allen Lane and the Penguin
Editors 1935-70. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Hogan, Robert (1959). “D. H. Lawrence and His Critics”, Essays in
Criticism, 9.4 (October).
Hoggart, Richard (1957). The Uses of Literacy: Aspects of working-class
life, with special reference to publications and entertainment. London:
Chatto & Windus.
—. (1961). ““Chatterley”, The Witnesses and the Law”, Encounter, 16.3
(March).
—. (1970). Speaking to Each Other, Volume II: About Literature. London:
Chatto.
—. “Lawrence’s Voices”, The Listener, October 29, 1964, in ibid.
—. “Question of Tone: Problems in Autobiographical Writing” in ibid.
—. “Finding a Voice” in ibid.
—. (1992). An Imagined Life: Life and Times 1959-1991. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
—. (1995). The Way We Live Now. London: Chatto.
—. (2001). Between Two Worlds. London: Aurum.
—. “The Rainbow” in ibid, 60-73.
—. “Women in Love” in ibid, 74-84.
—. “Lady Chatterley and the Censors” in ibid, 85-100.
Hoggart, Richard and Raymond Williams, “Working Class Attitudes”,
New Left Review 1, (January 1960), 26-30, reprinted in John McIlroy
and Sallie Westwood, (eds.), Border Country: Raymond Williams in
Adult Education (NIACE).
Sean Matthews 99
Notes
1
Where Rolph’s account omits or elides material (his is a heavily abridged
version), references given in the text are taken from the more complete transcript
in Hyde, (1990).
2
The second edition was itself reprinted repeatedly through the 1960s, further
securing the association of the two writers: Lawrence (1961).
3
Hoggart wrote a number of pieces in the aftermath of the Trial. Apart from the
“Introduction”, and “‘Chatterley’, The Witnesses and the Law” (Hoggart, 1961),
see also “Lawrence’s Voices”, The Listener, October 29 1964 (in Hoggart, 1970).
In his later writing, the Trial is a recurrent point of reference: see “Lady Chatterley
and the Censors” (in Hoggart, 1992, 47-70); and The Way We Live Now (1995,
252-3).
4
There is a wealth of material on the pre-history of Cultural Studies, with much
detailed reference to the 1950s: see for instance Patrick Brantlinger, Crusoe’s
Footprints: Cultural Studies in Britain and America (Routledge, 1990); Tony
Dunn, “The Evolution of Cultural Studies” in David Punter, ed., Introduction to
Contemporary Cultural Studies (Longman, 1986); Antony Easthope, Literary into
Cultural Studies (Routledge, 1991); Francis Mulhern, Culture/Metaculture
(Routledge, 2000); Graeme Turner, British Cultural Studies: An Introduction
(Routledge, 1990). There is little or no discussion, however, of the ways in which
the clarification and focus of debates around culture in the period drew so
specifically and repeatedly on Lawrence. For Lawrence studies, see particularly
Peter Preston, “‘I am a Novel’, Lawrence in Recent British Fiction”, in Keith
Cushman and Earl Ingersoll, eds., D. H. Lawrence: New Worlds (Rosemount,
2003), 25-49; Chris Baldick, “Post-mortem: Lawrence’s Critical and Cultural
Legacy”, in Anne Fernihough, ed., The Cambridge Companion to D. H. Lawrence
(Cambridge University Press, 2003) 253-270; Jeffrey Myers, ed., The Legacy of D.
H. Lawrence (Macmillan, 1987).
5
Eliot (1951, 11). Eliot later agreed to testify at the Chatterley Trial, although he
was not called–his trial deposition was given to Vivian de Sola Pinto and is now
deposited at the University of Nottingham. Graham Hough, the first witness for the
Defence to give evidence at the Trial, characterised the state of Lawrence criticism
before Leavis’s postwar essays as a “critico-biographical stew” (Hough, 1961, 9).
6
“Criticism can never be a science: it is, in the first place, much too personal, and
in the second, it is concerned with values that science ignores […] all this pseudo-
scientific classifying and analysing of books in an imitation-botanical fashion, is
mere impertinence, and mostly dull jargon” (Lawrence, 1985, 209).
7
Chris Baldick goes some way to redressing the balance in his account of
Lawrence’s posthumous reception and reputation: see note 4 above.
8
See e.g. Graham Hough’s comment in the 1961 reprint of his book The Dark Sun:
‘This book was first published five years ago, and even in that short time
Lawrence’s reputation seems to have passed into a new phase’ (11).
Sean Matthews 101
9
Hoggart returns at greater length to the way in which his attempt to describe that
habitual gesture was enabled by Lawrence in “A Question of Tone: Problems in
Autobiographical Writing” (in Hoggart, 1970, 192-3). See below for Hoggart’s use
of “anti-life” and “doing dirt on life”.
10
There is, perhaps, a teasing Lawrentian reference in Pinto’s use of the term
“prescribed”. In the satirical poem, “Nottingham’s New University”, Lawrence
plays with the institution’s origins in a donation from the chemist Sir Jesse Boot:
“they’ve built a new university/for a new dispensation of knowledge” (1967, 488).
11
Hoggart specifies the challenge Lawrence offers to “intelligent lay readers” in
his essay on The Rainbow in Between Two Worlds (2007, 60).
12
The original title for The Uses of Literacy was The Abuse of Literacy, but this
was changed, along with a large portion of the text which had been drawn from
actual magazines, at the insistence of the publisher’s lawyers. “Unfortunately”,
Hoggart remarks, “it is not possible to quote an actual example from a modern
popular publication”, and he proceeds to supply his own pastiches of the offending
material (1957, 194).
13
These exchanges should be set in the context of contemporaneous debates about
class consciousness and class identity which characterise the period. The
importance of class consciousness for the formation of class was the dominant
theme of, for instance, E P Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class
(Penguin, 3rd ed., 1980, c1963), and was a major concern in the early work of the
Birmingham Centre.
14
It is important to recall that the 1950s were, above all, the period of the vogue of
close reading, of the New Criticism, modes of reading which shared an ideal of
critical attention sustained entirely from within the text, and a disavowal of all
appeals to intention, or to the world outside the artefact, as illegitimate distractions
from exposition. The struggle to extend and historicize literary studies was an
important part of the changes which took place in the 1950s, with studies of
Lawrence providing a key means to achieve such a goal.
15
I am grateful to Sue Owen for bringing this passage to my attention.
16
Hoggart mentions the origins of The Uses of Literacy in “bits of a novel and
some unconnected descriptive pieces” in a conversation with Williams (Hoggart
and Williams, 1993, 111).
17
“‘You are merely making words,’ he [Birkin] said; ‘knowledge means
everything to you. Even your animalism, you want it in your head.’” Later in the
same exchange Hermione demands, “How can you have knowledge not in your
head?” (Lawrence, 1987, 41, 43).
18
The turn to ‘emotion’ in Hoggart’s work is again paralleled in Williams, who
was developing the concept of the ‘structure of feeling’ during the 1950s, see Sean
Matthews, ‘Change and Feeling in Raymond Williams’s Structure of Feeling’,
Pretexts 10:2, 179-194. For an example of a turn back towards Humanism, see
particularly Edward Said, Humanism and Democratic Criticism (Columbia
University Press, 2004).
THE ANXIETY OF INFLUENCE:
HOGGART, LIMINALITY
AND MELVYN BRAGG’S CROSSING THE LINES
KATIE WALES
Introduction
The cultural history of the North from ancient times provides numerous
examples of what I would term the “Dick Whittington” trope or narrative
(Wales, 2006): Northerners leaving home for London and Down South,
crossing the “North-South Divide” in search of fame and fortune.
However, the first half of the twentieth century witnesses a striking
variant: the “Pygmalion” trope. Because of changes in Education Acts, for
example, the working-class Northerner crosses a social boundary by being
able to go to grammar school, and then on to university, and even
Oxbridge: and at each stage faces the dilemma of changing even his
linguistic identity.
The significance of this trope is endorsed particularly in the well-
known Uses of Literacy (1957) (henceforth UL) by Richard Hoggart; or
what he might term the “Scholarship Boy” motif (see also Samuel, 1998).
It appears time and again in many post-World War 2 literary and cultural
representations, with varying degrees of autobiographical reference: from
the poetry of Tony Harrison to the first episodes of Coronation Street
(1960). Here Ken Barlow is more properly the “Scholarship Winner”,
rather than “Scholarship Boy”, as he prepares to go off to university
(locally, however, in Manchester) amidst scenes of tension at home.
In this chapter I wish to highlight a relatively recent novel, Crossing
the Lines (2003) by Melvyn Bragg: the third volume set in Cumbria of the
late 1950s of a trilogy, in Bragg’s own words, of “fiction disguised as
autobiography” (Independent Review 15.01.04). This particular volume
(henceforth CL) traces Joe Richardson’s passage from grammar school to
Oxford as a “Scholarship Winner”. In its structuring and themes this
bildungsroman reveals very clear similarities with Hoggart’s work,
particularly Chapter 10 of UL. In the first part of this chapter I shall
Katie Wales 103
(1) The scholarship boy has been equipped for hurdle-jumping, so here
merely thinks of getting on, but somehow not in the world’s way. He has
left his class, at least in spirit, by being in certain ways unusual, and he is
still unusual in another class, too tense and overwound. (cited Bennett
2005, 402)
Bragg himself has told me in a personal communication that not only had
he read UL in his youth, but that he had even thought at one stage of
dedicating CL to Hoggart (but perhaps he remembered that Harrison had
got there first). He and Hoggart have also worked together in the media on
several occasions since the late 1970s. Particularly noteworthy was the
BBC2 programme (5th June 1976) called Mirror on Class, about the
handling of class issues on television, in documentaries and soaps like
Coronation Street. Both Hoggart and Bragg appear to agree that the class
“divides” since the late 1950s had not gone away, although they were
handled differently. In this programme Bragg interestingly places UL itself
in a “literary breakthrough”, as he calls it, along with John Osborne,
Kingsley Amis and Arnold Wesker: seeing it as a work of literature.
However, Bragg has also been eager to point out to me that in the forty
or so years between the publication of UL and his own novel, other writers
had come to influence him. It certainly makes sense to see CL as paying
104 The Anxiety of Influence
homage, not only to writers like Orwell and Lawrence, but to the Northern
realistic fiction and cinema of the late 1950s and early 1960s: John
Braine’s Room at the Top (with the main character also called Joe)
published to same year as UL; and certainly Alan Sillitoe’s Saturday Night
and Sunday Morning (1959), which is referred to several times in the
novel. There is a strong sense in general of the 1950s Northern youth
scene, with its skiffle groups and rock n’ roll, granted that Wigton in
Cumbria, although a former centre for textile manufacturing, is no Leeds
or Manchester. Since Joe himself is a teen-ager, the novel also lacks the
strong air of disapproval of the new youth culture that undoubtedly
pervades UL. On the contrary, the future is to be embraced, from Butlins
to G-plan furniture.
But it is also undoubtedly the case that UL validated, as it were, other
works. It encouraged authors to write, cathartically, about their own
educational experiences, and not just in the North: think of Border
Country (1960) by Raymond Williams, set in Wales. Williams has spoken
of the “shock of recognition” (cited in Gregg, 2003, 295). As Gregg
writes, generally:
(2) for a number of years, perhaps for a long time, have a sense of no
longer really belonging to any group.’ (ibid, 292, my italics)
And there is even the striking and poignant evocation of a “real” threshold,
as he pictures the aspiring working-class man who would “like to be a
citizen of that well-polished …world of the successful intelligent middle-
class which he glimpses through doorways” (1976, 302; my italics).
Hoggart’s metaphors also vividly evoke the liminal, especially those of
friction:
(4) Almost every working-class boy who goes through the process of
further education by scholarship (finds himself chafing against his
environment during adolescence. He is at the friction-point of two cultures.
(ibid, 292)
(6) …he is still unusual in another class, too tense and overwound. (ibid,
302)
(7) …those who are self-conscious and yet not self-aware in any full sense.
(ibid, 293)
(8) He cannot go back; with one part of himself he does not want to go
back…with another part he longs for the membership he has lost…He
both wants to go back and yet thinks he has gone beyond his class.
(ibid,.301)
(9) He is usually ill at ease with the middle-classes because with one side
of himself he does not want them to accept him…He is divided as in so
many other ways… with one part of himself he admires much he finds in
them… With another part of himself he develops an asperity towards that
world. (ibid, 302)
–again noted by Enright in quotation (1) above. Not surprisingly, the agent
(or better, the instrument?) of hurdle-jumping can also be a horse:
Katie Wales 107
(12) He has been trained like a circus-horse, for scholarship winning (ibid,
298)
(13) “You’re coming up for the final furlong” (Bragg, 2003, 204)
Sam also has another appropriate, if rather different, metaphor, but one
which reflects the underlying difficulty or hardship of hurdle-jumping:
(14) “He’s going into battle”, he said quietly. “That’s what it is”. (ibid,
267)
Joe himself thinks along similar lines; but the “UP-ness” of ladders and
hurdles is echoed in his own metaphor of cliff-scaling:
(15) It was as if, sword still in hand, he had slain the dragon and turned the
corner only to find himself confronted by a cliff, sheer, unscalable, no
holds to be seen: Oxford University. (ibid, 282)
(16) …the twin citadels of scholarship were seen across a chasm of class
as wide as a continent. (ibid, 282)
(17) The spring in himself had now been wound so unbearably tightly that
instead of releasing it would break him. (ibid, 266)
(18 ) [For Joe, listening to classical concerts on his radio was] a secret vice.
…it was not that he was too embarrassed about it, although there was
some of that. Nor was he altogether ashamed, although there was a little of
that too… (ibid, 126)
(19) It was odd about Malcolm. He riled Joe and yet Joe thought of him as
a friend…There was something about Malcolm which made Joe feel
inferior and while he resented it he was also attracted to it. (ibid, 157-58)
Most dramatically, Joe is prone to feel that once “across the line”, so to
speak, he may find a void of nothingness should he fail:
(20) As long as he was working …he could keep at bay the strong anxiety
which threatened him. An anxiety which he feared…It was close to fear.
Perhaps it was fear. That he would fail. And then? There was nothing on
the other side. (ibid, 251)
(21) Yet there was within this coiled frenzy of anxiety, fear that if It [sic]
happened, his world would end…it would be the end. It was unimaginable,
he could not deal with this fear: it would wipe him out. (ibid, 307)
(22) Once at the grammar school he quickly learns to make use of a pair of
different accents. (1976, 296)
(23) …a hundred habits of speech and manners can “give him away” daily.
(ibid, 301)
(24) Already Joe knew that accent could make a man. Accent and a few
code words and a twang worth a life’s mortgage to learn. (Bragg, 2003,
393)
(25) For brains are the currency by which he has bought his way, and
increasingly brains seem to be the currency that tells…in the new world of
brain-currency… scholarships which are won by learning how to amass
and manipulate the new currency (Hoggart, 1976, 296-7)
For Joe a new “code” awaits, a “Sanskrit” as distinct from “plain English”
(Bragg, 2003, 294); and a necessary code to crack in order to gain
acceptance by “Them”. In his very first letter home to his girlfriend Rachel
(ibid, 383-4), already suggesting a high degree of general social unease
that persists until the end of the novel, he “translates” for her benefit the
terms he has already picked up : “Porter’s Lodge”, “up” not “down” to
Oxford; “hall” for “canteen”; “battels” for bills, “scouts” for servants,
“sporting your oak” for “do not disturb”, etc: and, what every Northerner
learns : “lunch” not “dinner” and dining at night not noon .
So it is only really at this point that we the readers become
dramatically aware of Joe’s own accent, precisely at the moment when his
own awareness of it is sharpened, and when it is becoming a
sociolinguistic problem for him. One is reminded of Robert Colls’ Preface
to Collier’s Rant (1971, 11), where he describes how, the son of a South
Shields shipyard worker, he went to Sussex University:
In the fictional universe that is Joe’s Oxford neither does he. He is very
obviously heard as different by his peers, who are mostly public school
Katie Wales 111
(26) “You’re from the North, aren’t you?” George looked closely at Joe,
who was instantly mired in self-consciousness. “I think people from the
North”, he said carefully, ‘”your sort of people, are much more real than
we are”.
Joe felt flattered. Later, in recollection, he suspected that he had been
regarded as a bit of a specimen.
“…I mean coal miners and steel workers, men in shipyards and the
factories–the Satanic Mills”, George said, his face set in sympathy. (Bragg,
2003, 391; my italics)
And once again the liminal state is evoked in the very imagery of
vacillation, as Joe begins to cross the “accent bar”:
(28) Joe’s accent had started to behave as if it were on black ice. Whenever
he braked the attempted pronunciation of a word to fit the governing sound
of English it slithered around helplessly. (ibid, 393)
(29) sometimes his pronunciation just skidded away. Neither Oxford nor
Wigton nor anything else (ibid, 449)
(30) [His] accent had been worked on, but, Joe thought, still “us” not
“them” (Bragg, 2003, 432; my italics)
112 The Anxiety of Influence
But “they” will surely prevail: as Mike himself tells Joe, tellingly forced to
“lean down and whisper” in an almost Orwellian manner:
(31) “… don’t lose the northern thing. They all want you to. They want to
absorb you. They want to rub you out. Don’t let them. Look what’s
happened to me! I was Manchester when I came up two years ago. Don’t
let them get you!” (ibid, 433-4; my italics)
(33) …in the other world of school his father can have little place; he tends
to make a father-figure of his form-master. (1976, 297)
however (nor the parallels that could be drawn with Harrison and
Bennett); although in one sense Joe himself acts as a “guide” to his father,
who is keen to read what Joe recommends to him. My concern here is
rather the significant role played by Joe’s teachers, particularly in English
and History, in encouraging him to study, to broaden his intellectual
horizons, and not only as narrowly as Hoggart would rather imply. Indeed,
Joe’s all too “mechanical” answers in his Mock O-levels are disapproved
of. And their kindly interest in the boy extends even beyond school, to
Oxford. Wadham College is in any case the alma mater of Mr Braddock
his history teacher, whose subject Joe will study. For Bragg, a more
appropriate metaphor for the teacher’s role is that of a navigator or
steersman (the ferryman):
(34) [Mr Braddock felt that some of the boys] were in uncharted waters,
already adrift from their parents and their past…more than usually reliant
on those who had encouraged them to slip their moorings. (2003, 237)
(35) But it was the schoolchildren, the variety and character in them, that
held him. He liked to imagine them as the crucible of a new England.
Some came from the mining town of Aspatria, others from the port of
Silloth, others from the hill villages still speaking the dialect of their
conquerors eleven hundred years ago, others from the rich Solway Plain,
others from the market town of Wigton…The schoolteacher saw some of
them as first of their kind to be off the land…first out of the mines, out of
the factories, and he saw himself bringing them to a new and better life
through the salvation of scholarship. (ibid, 156; my italics)
There is one teacher of Latin, however, Miss Castle, who does not
appear to like Joe very much. No reasons are given; but Miss Castle’s own
educational history might give a clue. Her presence in the novel also draws
attention to a significant omission in Hoggart’s Uses of Literacy, namely
the motif of the “Scholarship Girl”. When Miss Castle learns that Joe has
been "put in" for Oxford, but that the equally talented and middle-class
girl Brenda, a doctor's daughter, has not been "put in" despite her excellent
Latin results, she comments:
(36) “I still think it was a mistake not to put Brenda in but it is literally
seven times more difficult for a girl. I have reason to know. I was in the
114 The Anxiety of Influence
The pain of her “exclusion” still rankles. When Joe gets to Oxford, his
friend from a London independent school underlines the marginality, not
only of Northerners, but of women generally:
(37) “And of course people like you are under-represented, to say nothing
of women”. (ibid, 483)
Works Cited
Barry, P. (1999). “‘The hard lyric’: re-registering Liverpool poetry”,
Cambridge Quarterly 28.4, 328-48.
Bennett, Alan (1994). Writing Home. London: Faber.
—. (2005). Untold Stories. London: Faber.
—. (2003.) Crossing the Lines. London: Hodder & Stoughton/ Sphere.
Bragg, Melvyn and Richard Hoggart (1976). “Mirror on Class”. BBC2, 5th
June. In Richard Hoggart Archive, Sheffield University Library:
3/160/1.
Braine, John (1959). Room at the Top. London: Penguin. First pub. 1957.
Colls, R. (ed.) (1977). The Collier’s Rant. Beckenham: Croom Helm
Common, Jack (1993). Kiddar’s Luck. Newcastle: Bloodaxe. First pub.
1951.
Crowley, T. (1991). Proper English: Readings in Language, History and
Cultural Identity. London: Routledge.
Dennis, N., F. Henriques and C. Slaughter (1969). Coal is Our Life.
London: Tavistock.
Dodd, P. (1990). “‘Lowryscapes’: recent writings about the North”,
Critical Quarterly 32, 17-28.
116 The Anxiety of Influence
Notes
1
The cover of the paperback version of CL, with a young woman and young man
on either side of a stream seems to symbolise another kind of boundary or ‘line-
crossing’ important in the novel, namely the line of “acceptable” sexual
exploration for adolescents that was increasingly foregrounded in the late 1950s.
2
In 1921 the Newbolt Committee, set up by the Board of Education, strongly
advocated “systematic training in the use of Standard English”, to be taught to
those pupils with “defective dialects”, and “evil habits of speech contracted in
home and street” (cited Crowley 1991). The teacher’s role was seen as paramount
in the “fight” to civilise their charges. As Jack Common notes in his semi-
autobiographical novel Kiddar’s Luck (1951), set in Newcastle around the time of
Katie Wales 117
World War I: “the teacher must prepare [pupils] for that position [in adult society]
by the appropriate character-conditioning, initiation into that peculiar code of
behaviour which is the mark of their kind” (1993, 83, my italics).
3
See Barry’s interesting comments (1999, 338) on the Liverpool poet Matt
Simpson’s “Latin Master”: “an archetypal figure in such ‘transiting’ lives, that is,
the schoolmaster who opens the way for the crossing of social boundaries”.
“STANCES AND TONES BEFORE LIFE”:
RICHARD HOGGART
AND THE QUESTION OF VOICE
SIMON GRIMBLE
Aunt Ethel had a remarkable range of tones […], small in the subjects they
covered since they concentrated on the criticism of aberrant personality
but, within that area, complex and surprisingly varied. Did she get them
from the plays, usually domestic dramas, which she and her woman friend
from Huddersfield saw from time to time at the Theatre Royal? Had they
been handed down orally from generation to generation? Was she an
original genius? Her style was extremely theatrical and abounded in stagey
ejaculations, studied pauses, rhetorical questions, upliftings of the eyes and
deafening conclusions. But it tore you apart and I hope to never see or hear
its like again. There was an agonised spirit in there but it would not give an
inch in pity or qualification or benefit of any doubt, not whilst it was
actually possessed. (Hoggart, 1988, 20)
Simon Grimble 119
Here is a message from the other side: of the perils of too much voice.
There is a sophisticated rhetorician here, but one defeated by the fact that
this argument is over before it has begun. None of the family has any
response to this unappeasable sound. We could, tendentiously, read the
whole of Richard Hoggart’s career as an attempt to resist the example of
Aunt Ethel, to find ways of acting and thinking that did, exactly, lead to
“pity or qualification or benefit of any doubt”. But her example would
remain a problem, the feeling that some kinds of speech, even, perhaps
especially, the most potent kinds, represented a dead end for the speaker
and an experience of torture for the listener. It is important that Hoggart, in
A Local Habitation, admits that “I can make little coherent sense of Aunt
Ethel and wish I could; that would be a kind of breakthrough” (ibid, 26).
Instead, she remains a barrier to proper thinking, even as her eloquence is
a kind of flood. Hoggart has to conclude by placing Ethel outside of the
realm of those who could be redeemed, because, he writes, “I later came to
realise that Aunt Ethel was not, in spite of her great energy and
articulateness, really intelligent” (ibid, 27). This is because she lacked “a
strong imagination”, “the fluid which can transform intellect, bare mind
and drive, into intelligence” (ibid, 27). This seems to be a way to stop
thinking about her: an allowable one, especially for someone who went on
to become a literary critic and a recommender of the value of the literary
intelligence, but, still, a way.
The question of Aunt Ethel, her voice, and its possible implications for
how Hoggart has thought about himself and his own intellectual and
literary career bears further examination. She is the third person to be
substantially described in A Local Habitation, after her sister, Annie, and
her mother, Hoggart’s grandmother, both of whom are portrayed as great
sources of love and comfort to Hoggart, who would grow up in his
grandmother’s house after the death of his mother at the age of six. The
arrival of Ethel into his life is presented with the force of a kind of Fall:
The Newport Street house was dominated emotionally by Aunt Ethel, the
eldest daughter. Since our mother had been the only adult in our cottage
and was, all the time I was aware of her, overborne and ill, I had never met
full, physically charged, emotional rage until I lived in the same house as
Ethel. It was an awful revelation and even now, if I hear a woman raise her
voice along certain scales or registers, I want to be out of the way quickly.
(Ibid, 15)
Despite the fact that his mother had been so unwell in their previous home,
there appears to be a slightly pastoral emphasis to its description as a
“cottage”, full of care, decency and low voices, which is now opposed to
120 Richard Hoggart and the Question of Voice
the “Newport Street house”, which manages to seem large, impersonal and
unwelcoming when invested with Ethel’s presence, despite its status as a
Leeds back-to-back. Yet Ethel’s arrival also seems to signify Hoggart’s
own arrival into consciousness; to be exposed to her rage was “an awful
revelation”, yet “awful” here both suggests its modern sense (i.e. terrible,
useless), and its older, partly religious, sense of what the OED defines
as”Worthy of, or commanding, profound respect or reverential fear”, and
the related sense of “Solemnly impressive; sublimely majestic”.
“Revelation” itself still carries some of its biblical power to suggest
judgment and an epic making clear of things, and, from the first, the reader
senses Hoggart’s rather vexed feelings towards Ethel, who he wants to
sometimes dismiss, or, at least, be “out of the way” of, but the analysis of
whom produces some of his most complex and interesting writing. One of
the key aspects appears to be the question of sexuality and gender.
“Towards men,” Hoggart writes, “Aunt Ethel was deeply ambiguous. She
was much of the time bitterly scornful, as though she was talking about
some aberration of the Creator, or randy dogs”. Meanwhile, however, “one
of her favourite epithets was ‘manly’ and to that word she could give a
vibrant force”, and she would sometimes remark on “how much she liked
‘the smell of a good cigar’”. In summary, “her ideal man appeared to be a
capon or gelding who could smell of tobacco but not of sex” (ibid, 15).
There does seem to be anxiety here about emasculation, the directness of
which Hoggart tries to sidestep by his, emasculated, alternatives: “capon”
gives a Shakespearean, slightly comic, quality, whilst “gelding” is a little
more visceral, but still seems at a historical remove. At the same time,
there is a focus on Ethel’s voice here, as if the power of her voice–as in the
“vibrant force” she could give to her pronunciation of the word “manly” –
may well come at the cost of Hoggart’s own voice, and of his own sexual
development: he does not want to become a “gelding” or, mysteriously,
never to reach puberty at all. Her power derives from the fact that her,
female, voice, appears to Hoggart to be itself partly “manly”, and yet it is
her frustration at the lack of a clear role and place for her that gives her
speech its harsh and biting quality.
These issues are very much entangled with those of class. Hoggart
presents Ethel as a person who was frustrated in her desire to look beyond
the streets in which she now lived. She had worked in Huddersfield, and
went back there at alternate weekends, but had returned to Leeds, for
unexplained reasons, to work in a clothing factory–perhaps because she
was “needed in the family”. What is clear is that Ethel had definite social
aspirations and wanted to leave the traditional working class of her own
upbringing. But, by returning to Leeds, “once home, Ethel was trapped
Simon Grimble 121
and she knew it, though would not have acknowledged it. Trapped with.
not only her mother but with a sister and brother to whom she would be all
her life emotionally connected, whose respect and affection she wanted,
but of whom she did not approve; she was trapped in those shabby streets
among those ‘common’ people; and she hated it all. Huddersfield had been
an embodiment of a dream she never quite lost […] a dream of semis, of
colourful curtains which pulled across rather than lace curtains”, “an
inside ‘toilet’”, “a bathroom”, “some garden at front and rear and nicely
spoken neighbours” (ibid, 18). Hoggart recognises and, at times in A Local
Habitation, criticises this desire for gentility, and yet may also recognise
Ethel’s desire for social mobility as a version of his own story of
“improvement”, whilst trying to think of his own career as not merely that
of trying to get away from the class to which he belonged.
A further way of thinking about both Hoggart and Ethel in relation to
the working class bears exactly on the question of voice. The social
historian Ross McKibbin has noted, in his Classes and Cultures, the
“fatalism” common in “traditional” working-class attitudes during the
inter-war period: it was a class “much attached to the workplace, but ruled
by group opinion [and] … seemingly without ambition” (McKibbin, 1998,
132). Such attitudes had a clear influence on the ways in which people
thought and spoke. Hoggart would address this situation directly in The
Uses of Literacy, and McKibbin later refers to the passage in that book that
addresses the magazines written for the working class, where:
Ethel’s rage was torrential and seemingly inexhaustible in drive and thrust;
you felt yourself being broken apart by it. I did not know then the word
“reduced”, in the sense used in “reduced to tears”. But one certainly felt
reduced to pure misery by these occasions. There was no love left
anywhere, not “in the whole abandoned world”; all was a waste of volcanic
rancour. It’s not right, you whispered within yourself, without realising
Simon Grimble 123
Hoggart has to attempt his own distancing here, referring to himself in the
second person, but still describes the experience of not being able to
escape this consuming voice, a voice that has the power to turn the world
into a “waste of volcanic rancour”. But in so doing, Ethel has provoked
him to reveal his own literary skill, in his extension of the, perhaps more
clichéd, metaphor of the “torrential” rage. And yet there is also a sense in
which he would, much rather, deflect her presence retrospectively by
seeing her as a certain kind of northern, working-class female “type”, one
who has over-indulged in native non-conformist traditions of plain
speaking, traditions which have to be counterbalanced by a pervasive,
undemonstrative irony. Hoggart moves directly from this painful
recollection to that kind of perspective: “Years later, it was discovered that
Ethel had gallstones; it was a sort of relief to think that they may have
been partly responsible. On the other hand she was not all that much better
tempered after the huge things had been removed and put in a jar on the
mantelpiece” (ibid, 21).
Hoggart’s career has been an attempt to work out his own version of
plain speaking, a version that could be both critical and have some affinity
with the processes of imagination, to be educated but not to be weighed
down by a class-based vocabulary. What has remained is a determination
to avoid the possibility of a kind of over-extended rhetoric, and to avoid
any staginess in his own self-presentation. In A Sort of Clowning, the
second volume of his Life and Times, he recalls going for a interview for
an extension lectureship at Cambridge, where he overheard the chairman
of the panel warning the panel before he entered the interview room that
he was against Hoggart’s appointment, on the grounds that he was a
“northern puritan” (the job was given to an Oxbridge man, who gave
courses on the Nineteen Twenties and liked to teach with a piano in the
room, so he could launch into Noel Coward renditions if the class was
drifting off). Hoggart’s response is telling: “”I wondered whether to tell
them with a flourish where to put their job, but my histrionic sense is weak
so I kept tight-lipped, did not try to promote my claims and answered
briefly” (1990, 112). The absence of that “histrionic sense” can be found
throughout his work, a sense which is associated in his mind with facile
displays and complicity with an undemanding audience. In “A Question of
Tone”, an essay on the writing of autobiography, he remarks on “how easy
it is to slip into indulgent, throat-catching rhythms – and how willingly
one’s audience will accept them. There are hundreds of different
deceptions” (1970, 180). In response to this, Hoggart writes that “I find
124 Richard Hoggart and the Question of Voice
myself … led more and more into a sort of neutral tone, one washed as
free as I can make it of accidental literary or social overtones. In the end
one hopes to find the real, right tone for one’s own personality; until then,
better what may look like no personality at all than any of the artificial
ones” (ibid, 187)).
So, out of this experiences such as these, combined with many other
warnings and siren-calls from the worlds of politics and the consumer
society, emerged a sense these rhetorical kinds of voice needed be resisted.
But there is also a clear and immediate biographical context which helps
explain this sensibility. In A Local Habitation, it is striking the extent to
which Hoggart positions himself as an observer and witness, rather as an
active presence or initiator. He ties this quality of carefulness to his
family’s fear of sinking away from their desperately guarded position of
working–class respectability. He writes that “the traps and the treadmill
were there all the time and only by being nervously aware of them could
you not so much rise as at least stay in place, keep your head above water.
‘Watchful’ is the word above all others” (1988, 26). To be watchful is to
keep yourself in check. It is not just to watch the world but to watch any
extraordinary or disruptive possibilities in yourself, and to hold them back.
And to be watchful is to be careful of rhetoric and where it might put you:
as both an appalled listener, not allowed to leave the set of a domestic
drama, or as the abandoned ham-actor or lecturer, strutting and fretting his
hour upon the stage.
Furthermore, Hoggart had also experienced, in a very close and painful
way, what it was to hear oneself talked about, and the kind of heightened
sensitivity that it brought. The fact that he and his siblings lived in
considerable poverty and then were orphaned at an early age would mean
that they could be viewed as a problem, for the authorities to manage and
for relatives to discuss:
work and home, tradition and novelty, custom and education” (Inglis,
1982, 168). Hoggart’s situation in that “border country” marks his
distinctiveness as a figure, but it also makes for a perennial uncertainty
over where he and his audience are actually situated: on which side of the
border they stand, of whether they can hear him, or indeed, whether he can
hear them. Because of this anxiety, the premium put on open, extended
communication by Hoggart is extremely high; it is no accident that one of
his collections of essays is entitled Speaking to Each Other–“speaking to”,
that is, rather than “shouting at”.
The question is, for present readers of Hoggart, whether his mode of
address can be extended or if, however unsubtly, George Watson is right,
and the social and historical conditions which allowed his particular voice
to develop have disappeared, and with it the possibility of forming any
similar relationship with one’s audience. The answer, to this writer’s mind,
remains open and is, necessarily, extended upon in every sentence we
write: if we can imagine a reader, we can think about the possibility of
communication. But we will be, if we follow Hoggart’s example of the
intellectual, always in that “border country”, that in-between position, a
role, as Collini has written, “perpetually tacking between the Scylla of
timidity, hermeticism, and over-specialism, and the Charybdis of
exhibitionism, philistinism, and over-exposure” (2006, 495). Richard
Hoggart has spent his career crossing and re-crossing these alarming
straits, and in his own way, he has lived its contradictions, and dramatised,
whether intentionally or otherwise, its difficulties. In that sense, he has
provided an example of how these tensions might be managed, but only, as
it were, accidentally: the more hagiographic accounts of Hoggart’s life
appear to me to be finally misplaced. Any intellectual that sees him or
herself following in his tradition needs to be conscious of the fact that we
start, not in his shade, but de novo: in our own place, with our own voice,
such as it is. In that sense, Hoggart is certainly an important example: of
what it is not be an “original genius” but instead to be “one of us”, with all
of its ambiguous implication.
But perhaps a final model for understanding Hoggart’s own voices is
indicated in a talk he gave on Radio Three in 1980, on The Education of
Henry Adams, the troubled and coded autobiography of the American
historian, Henry Adams. Hoggart describes himself as reading the book in
late adolescence and finding that “its stances and tones before life–a
narrow but subtle range of voices–were notes from the new world which
chimed in with some in such native writers as Arnold and Hardy to whom
I’d already become attached” (Hoggart, 1982, 106). Hoggart would later
write that he “was drawn to the soft-shoe precisions and dry pawkiness of
130 Richard Hoggart and the Question of Voice
the prose and the way he distanced himself from himself” (1988, 197).
This “narrow but subtle range of voices” become associated in his mind
with a sense of modest yet powerful representativeness that he finds in
Adams’ account, where his teasing at various continual concerns, both of
content and of metaphor, eventually allows Adams “to present his life as
both in itself insignificant yet as in some ways illustrating great
movements of cultural change” (1982, 108). Hoggart’s three volume Life
and Times often takes on some of the same qualities as Adams” account,
with its own impressive distancing of “himself from himself”, yet without
losing its most touching human qualities, as well as preserving this sense
of the life lived as “insignificant”, while thinking of insignificance as the
best place for the really accurate, the really concerned and thoughtful
observer and witness. It is in this quality of the representative witness–and
not as Aunt Ethel’s stage rhetorician–speaking in his modest, yet mixed
tones, that Richard Hoggart’s writing will continue to stand in this
country, not just as a series of propositions about culture and society, but
as a way of giving voice to experience, of the way we live now.
Works Cited
Collini, Stefan (2006). Absent Minds: Intellectuals in Britain. Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Hoggart, Richard (1970). Speaking to Each Other, Vol. II: About
Literature. London: Chatto & Windus.
—. (1982). An English Temper. London: Chatto & Windus.
—. (1988). A Local Habitation: Life and Times, Volume I: 1918-40.
London: Chatto & Windus.
—. (1990). A Sort of Clowning: Life and Times, Volume II: 1940-59.
London: Chatto & Windus.
—. (1992). The Uses of Literacy. London: Penguin. First pub. 1957.
Inglis, Fred (1982). Radical Earnestness: English Social Theory, 1880-
1980. Oxford: Martin Robertson.
McKibbin, Ross (1998). Classes and Cultures: England, 1918-51. Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Watson, George (1982).”The Higher Cosiness”, Times Literary
Supplement, 334.
LOCAL HABITATIONS: WORKING CLASS
CHILDHOOD AND ITS USES IN THE MEMOIRS
OF RICHARD HOGGART AND OTHERS
MICHAEL ROSENFELD
aside, The Vanished Landscape illustrates the very prejudices many in the
working class knew their middle class “friends” to hold. By juxtaposing
the two worlds that overlapped in his childhood, Johnson’s memoir brings
into relief the chasm of class that kept them apart.
The image of the 1930s Potteries Johnson offers us is of “idle men
with pipes gripped upside down in their jaws.” J. B. Priestley-like, it is an
almost iconic portrait of the interwar North as depicted in the photography
of Humphrey Spender, the novels of Cronin and Greenwood, and the
reportage of Orwell. So, too, the recollected olfactory pungency: “But in
those days the working class smelt. In the Potteries I doubt if one-in-ten
working class families had a bathroom, though the authorities were doing
everything in their power to build new housing estates with three
bedrooms in each home, a bathroom, proper kitchen and downstairs indoor
lavatory.”(Johnson, 2004, 68) Girls were, for the most part, free of such
odoriferous blemish, but boys gave off a potent combination of “urine,
sweat, and indeterminate grime.” But it was the old men, the library
denizens, who were the most offensive. “They smelled powerfully, a
sickly sweet geriatric pong, composed of tobacco, beer stains, chronic
bodily complaints, and sheer weariness. Their feet in particular stank of
unwashed socks and ancient shoes barely holding together” (ibid,69).
Such a recollection of the defining odors of others, especially after
seven decades, signifies a powerful consciousness of one’s own
cleanliness and the importance of un/cleanliness as a marker, especially in
an era when lice, described as the “town livestock” by Johnson’s family,
were the bane of millions. But the very structure of the world that
produced “nits” and “wogs” and “powerful pongs” went unquestioned,
perhaps not surprisingly in a home in which those beyond the pale were
condemned as “worse than trade unionists.” What would improve the
conditions of that world, however, was art—Johnson’s father was head of
the Burslem School of Art—and Johnson recalls an early lesson in the
religion of art: “But I’ll tell you this little Paul. The destructiveness in
human beings can be mitigated if the everyday things in their lives are
made beautiful. Beauty is the enemy of violence and war and crime…If
people live in well-designed houses, have simple furniture which strives
for elegance, and eat off plates and drink from cups which have fine
shapes and beautiful patterns and colors, their characters will be softened
and refined and their behavior will improve. So it is up to us to provide
these things…” (Johnson, 2004, 116-117). This was said with a complete
absence of self-consciousness and represents, more than a half-century
after they were first espoused, the East End missionary ideals of Samuel
Barnett and his Whitechapel Art Gallery. Absent was any awareness of
Michael Rosenfeld 133
working class culture or any faith that workers had the capacity to create
culture or that cultural uplift might be directed at helping workers to
discover the sounds of their own voices. As multifarious, deep and rich as
working class culture could be—witness Sheffield in 1918 as presented in
Jonathan Rose’s Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes—(2005,
chapter 6) Johnson senior was blind to it.
While many may still look back at that world in anger, Johnson’s
memory-landscape affirms that world of nits and wogs and powerful
pongs. “It amazes me now, looking back, how free my life as a small boy
was, how little I was supervised and how confident my parents were that I
would come to no harm. Children today, by comparison, are prisoners of
the evil which walks in the world….Poverty was everywhere but so too
were the ten commandments.” (Johnson, 2004, 37-38) Johnson entombs
that world in nostalgia, engaging in what the philosopher Edward Casey
has termed “social cryogenics.” Thus The Vanished Landscape ends with
the following paean: “When I visited the place, nearly half-a-century later,
all had changed. The smoke, the soot, the smog and fog had gone. The
coal mines were still. The railways…had vanished….I saw no slums
either. Most of all, a thousand bottle-shaped pot banks, the main and
essential ingredient of that landscape, had been demolished….Every
element of dreary modernity had been introduced. It looked like anywhere
else in England. It was clean, comparatively prosperous, comfortable after
a fashion and totally lacking in character….in the process [the Potteries
area] had lost her strong, romantic beauty; and I suspect, her soul” (ibid,
200.) Nostalgia and a gemeinshaft grouse are thus fused so that the past
becomes a form of cultural critique of a present that falls far short of it.
In affirming and romanticizing the past Johnson’s memoir differs
profoundly from those of Roberts and Hoggart and somewhat less
profoundly from Woodruff’s, which also makes use of nostalgia, though
for different ends than Johnson’s. While the physical geography all four
writers negotiated may have been similar, they occupied different social
spaces and experienced different intellectual and social formations.
Johnson is middle class, conservative, and Roman Catholic, a man whose
loyalties run to the past; Roberts, Hoggart, and Woodruff working class,
socialist in sympathy if not in explicit commitment, and unchurched,
individuals for whom the past had been something to overcome and
transform, not affirm and validate, to be remembered heuristically as a
way of witnessing to the present. Transmuted into written memory their
pasts become teaching tools as cultural actors. For all of them, childhood
memory transmuted into memoir becomes a form of political engagement,
although the purposes they pursue are far from identical.
134 Working Class Childhood and its Uses in the Memoirs
of Richard Hoggart and Others
which Cockburn itself was offering. After a break like that you never sit
entirely or wholly at ease in your local culture” (ibid, 182). In that
disjunctive and partially destabilized space we can locate the landscape of
Hoggart’s non-doctrinaire humanism, his commitment to decency, and his
enduring loathing for “the sniffer dogs of social class.”
Robert Roberts was born fifteen years earlier than Hoggart, in Salford,
in what he believed was “as closed an urban society as any in Europe”
(Roberts, 1971, 17). Like Hoggart, he is no nostalgist. In 1971 he wrote
scathingly, “But realists among the old working class today remember and
with sadness…the many women broken and aged with childbearing well
before their own youth was done. They remember the spoiled
complexions, the mouths full of rotten teeth, the varicose veins, the
ignorance of simple hygiene, the intelligence stifled and the endless battle
merely to keep clean. Unlike many in the middle and upper classes fondly
looking back…they weep no tears for the past….The tragedy was that in
the most opulent country in the world so many possessed so little” (ibid,
41). As Andrew Davies has noted, Roberts’ writings were a deliberate
attempt “to puncture the romanticized images of the traditional working
class community advanced by sociologists and cultural commentators in
the late 1950s and 1960s.” (2004)
Almost four decades after it was written, Roberts’ anger, a legacy from
his autodidact mother and transmuted by him into a lifetime of work in
support of labor, is still palpable. His books, all three of them minor
classics, were the work of his final few years of life—he died aged 69 in
1974. Imprisoned Tongues is a pioneering work in teaching adult literacy,
the result of his years teaching prisoners—some of them childhood
friends—at Strangeways. The Classic Slum is a critically acclaimed
account of growing up in Salford in the first quarter of the 20th century,
while its sequel, A Ragged Schooling, is an elaboration on some of the
themes first sketched in The Classic Slum. Typically, Roberts had left
school at 14 to become an engineering apprentice, only to be sacked, like
so many of his generation, as soon as he came of age. Several years of
characteristic 1930s idleness passed before his employment as a teacher
which ended abruptly in his dismissal upon application for conscientious
objector status in 1939. Subsequently he worked for the National Council
of Labor Colleges, the Anglo Swedish Institute, and the Prison Service.
Raymond Williams, in reviewing Hoggart’s work, faulted it for what it
had failed to include in its depiction of working class life, most notably the
absence of conflict, the silence about many adult preoccupations, and the
omission or under-estimation of those influences which combined to
create the labor movement in the 20th century. Perhaps Hoggart had not
Michael Rosenfeld 137
written the books that Raymond Williams had wanted. But it is arguable
that Robert Roberts did. If, as Melissa Gregg claims, Hoggart’s Uses of
Literacy needs to be situated within a discourse of empathy, then perhaps
the appropriate discourse for situating Roberts’ Classic Slum would be one
of disappointed radicalism. (Gregg, 2003)
Toward the end of A Ragged Schooling Roberts recounts an episode
from the last of his schooldays. “Free speech,” he wrote, ‘didn’t come
easily to children kept down at home or in the classroom.” But Roberts
had had a teacher who had wanted to help working class children develop
a consciousness of their own selfhood. To that end he staged a debate of
the proposition that “children should go to school until they are fifteen.”
Roberts was chosen to defend the proposition and, with the aid of his
mother, he developed a case that emphasized intellectual growth and
social fairness, arguing that the children of the poor ought to have as much
opportunity for education as the children of the rich. Lily Weeton, “a
pallid girl with plaits,” made the case against the proposition.
She came out and climbed atop the speaker’s box. “Her words were few
but explosive. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘we should gerrout to work at fourteen
and fetch some money in for us parents.’ Then she stepped off the box to a
thunderclap of applause, cheering, and clog-stamping that rocked the
school” (Roberts, 1976, 171-172). The vote: Roberts 2, Weeton 48. “Like
their fathers,” Roberts reflected, “the children of the proletariat were, as
yet, unripe for revolution.”(ibid, 173).
Of the fathers of the children of the proletariat Roberts wrote,
“Ignorant, unorganized, schooled in humility, they had neither the wit nor
the will to revolt. Like the working class as a whole they went on gazing
up still to the ineffable reaches of the middle and upper orders” (1971,
185.) But Roberts recognizes that prior to the Great War, and especially
for those he termed the undermass, it was almost impossible for it to be
otherwise. The poor experienced power working down on them through
parsons, teachers, policemen, doctors, and employers. Nor was that power
benign. “Under the common bustle crouched fear. Fear was the common
leitmotif of [their] lives, dulled only now and then from the Dutch courage
gained by drunkenness” (ibid, 88).
Those who made up that fearful undermass were the neighbors of
Roberts’ youth, the customers of his mother at his family’s corner shop,
those on whom he eavesdropped and early discovered much about the
world of adults. Roberts deftly presents that knowledge as autobiography,
but it is so thickly described as to offer us a more detailed and nuanced
picture of urban working class life than that presented of Leeds by
Hoggart. The memory landscape is one of oppression, immiseration,
138 Working Class Childhood and its Uses in the Memoirs
of Richard Hoggart and Others
Story and A Cornishman at Oxford, are full of the same exaggerated hopes
and heightened expectancy that mark Roberts, the same brutal realism in
his descriptions of working class life, and the same frustration and anger at
the short-sightedness and stupidity—Rowse’s own words—of his own
class. But it may also be possible to situate Roberts Classic Slum as an
important corrective to manufactured images, a counter–narrative not only
to puncture academicians but to check as well a contrived working class
popular culture image typified in the 1950s and 1960s by such films as I’m
All Right Jack or Ladies Who Do and which lives on today in such
programs as Coronation Street or East Enders. Although there are key
points at which Roberts and Hoggart disagree with one another—the
relationship of the working class to the arts, for example—their
autobiographies complement one another as they both narrate the past to
problematize the present.
The past presents no obvious problem for William Woodruff, most of
whose life for the past five decades has been lived as an accomplished
economic historian in the United States. The Road to Nab End (originally
published as Billy Boy), the account of his Blackburn childhood he
published in his eighties, became such a popular success that it led to a
sequel and a novel. It is the least satisfactory of the autobiographies
considered here. It is an engaging and enjoyable work, but little more than
that. Unlike Hoggart and Roberts, the past is not used by Woodruff to
problematize or interrogate the present; unlike Johnson, Woodruff does
not use the landscape of his childhood to construct an anti-modernist
discourse. Instead, for him the past is a foreign country. But with a good
tour guide—the author—we can visit it as tourists, enjoy what we see, and
avoid encountering anything too disconcerting. This is obvious from the
very start of Woodruff’s narrative as he consciously takes the reader with
him on a journey-“It was now or never”—from Florida to Blackburn,
arriving in clothes too thin for the bracing winds and receiving a querying
are-you-sure ?second-look from the taxi driver when he indicated his
destination. “The Blackburn I saw was becalmed. We stood in what had
been Griffin Street and surveyed a wind-swept, rubble-strewn wasteland
covering many acres. ‘Slum clearance,’ the driver mused, picking his
teeth. ‘Had to do it, Pakis were moving in. It’s a pity you came all the way
from America to find everything gone.’ ‘Oh, no,’ I answered. ‘On the
contrary everything is here’” (Woodruff, 1999, 6).
The topography that Woodruff recreates and leads us over is the usual
one with few surprises. There is strangeness, but nothing so unrecognizable
as to foster a feeling of dissonance. There are head to feet sleeping
arrangements in crowded beds, piss pots frozen because of the cold,
140 Working Class Childhood and its Uses in the Memoirs
of Richard Hoggart and Others
story. This is not the case with either Woodruff or Johnson who seem
locked in a personal idiom that ultimately localizes rather than
collectivizes their experiences. Whether looking out on the working class,
as in the case of Johnson, or in passing through it, as appears to have been
the case with Woodward, their memories of childhood, charming,
interesting, or engaging as they are, never really transcend the level of
personal concern. Yet for all of them, regardless of how they used their
narrated pasts, the landscapes of early life were, as Hoggart noted,
indelibly engraved.
Works Cited
Davies, Andrew (2004). “Robert Roberts,” DNB, www. Oxforddnb.com
Gregg, Melissa (2003). “A Neglected History: Richard Hoggart’s
Discourse of Empathy,” Rethinking History 7 (3), 285-306.
Hoggart, Richard (1984). A Local Habitation. New Brunswick:
Transaction.
Johnson, Paul (2004). The Vanished Landscape. London: Weidenfeld &
Nicolson.
McKibbin, Ross (1998). Classes and Cultures. New York: Oxford
University Press.
Roberts, Robert (1971). The Classic Slum. Manchester: Manchester
University Press.
—. (1976). A Ragged Schooling. Manchester: Manchester University
Press.
Rose, Jonathan (2005). The Intellectual Life of the British Working Class.
New Haven: Yale University Press.
Steedman, Carolyn (1986). Landscape for a Good Woman. New York:
Virago.
Waters, Chris (1999). “Representations of Everyday Life: L. S. Lowry and
the Landscape of Memory in Postwar Britain,” Representations 65
(Winter), 121-150.
Woodruff, William (1999). The Road to Nab End. London: Abacus.
QUESTIONS OF TASTE AND CLASS:
RICHARD HOGGART AND BONAMY DOBRÉE
TOM STEELE
references are of course deeply literary. Could he have seen Cockburn this
way without them, through as it were, the naked eye? Is “Richard
Hoggart” already a literary creation like Jude?
Hoggart seems to have achieved his first immersion into literature
through public institutions but without the aid of the personally enabling
master also familiar to many working class students who make the break.
Indeed his masters seemed puzzled if not a little disturbed by his
precocity. But Cockburn had opened doors to him, Disarmingly, Hoggart
notes: “I am not a strong intellectual, but what Cockburn started in me was
the habit of questioning the world I had been previously offered”. That in
turn makes him dissatisfied with Cockburn itself and “After a break like
that you never again sit entirely or wholly at ease in your local culture”
ibid, 182). What then Hoggart goes on to say seems to be the precursor for
the cultural work that so distinguished him from his predecessors: “You
can make your peace with your native culture, can learn to be to some
degree at ease with it, may come to respect it; but you can never again be
an integral part of it, and that is not to be regretted; you have bitten the
fruit” (ibid). This statement of deep but necessary loss makes Hoggart a
part of the future that speaks powerfully to the condition of the generation
of working class undergraduates that were as a result of the university
reforms of the 1960s to come in increasing numbers.
Hoggart’s reference to Jude the Obscure is not surprising since at
Cockburn reading Hardy had been, if not the blinding flash on his road to
Damascus, at least the brightest gas lamp. Hoggart’s vacation essay on the
novelist, very much against the grain of conventional opinion, described
him as “a truly cultured man”: “Something in Hardy’s whole manner of
facing experience spoke to me in way I hardly understood” (ibid,179).
Intrigued by Hardy’s lack of formal higher education and his dismissal by
the metropolitan elite, with the important exception of Edmund Gosse, as a
simple countryman, Hoggart found himself for the first time questioning
received notions about culture and cultivation in the form he was to
master, the extended essay.
You could say Hoggart’s relationship with Bonamy Dobrée was then
overdetermined by his early wrestling with words which had the power to
produce a felt experience so significantly different yet uncannily similar to
the world he had grown up in. The “glamour” of Cockburn Grammar
School, experienced by Hoggart has to be a cultural product of a literary
immersion.
Unlike Raymond Williams, who grew up in a strongly political climate
and a remarkable tradition of educational self-help in the Welsh labour
movement, Hoggart experienced class as an exclusion from culture and
Tom Steele 145
I felt from your book [Culture and Society] that you were surer, sooner
than I was, of your relationship to your working-class background. With
me, I remember, it was a long and troublesome effort. It was difficult to
escape a kind of patronage, even when one felt one was understanding the
virtues of the working-class life one had been brought up in–one seemed to
be insisting on these strengths in spite of all sorts of doubts in one’s
attitudes (Hoggart and Williams, 1960, 26).
untimely death in 1919, had turned Herbert Read’s career into the path of
literature in 1912. The patronage of gifted working-class and disadvantaged
students by liberal intellectuals is well enough known as, perhaps, the
balm of an otherwise savagely discriminatory higher educational system.
… a man of great intellectual sparkle, and great physical charm. But that
charm had to express itself in the precise restrained codes for physical
gesture used by the English upper class. It belonged to a separate
compartment from his lively intellect–the style of that had been picked up
on his slightly eccentric road through parts of academic life and the
literary-artistic circle he moved in (Eliot, Lawrence, Read, Moore).
(Hoggart, 1991, 50)
a training college or university after the war, but definitely not school
teaching. But he also wanted to do “something social” and to that end was
interested in the plans for a post-war ABCA (army education) in which
W.E. Williams the modernising editor of the WEA’s journal The Highway
was said to be involved.
More than any other educational area, perhaps, adult education was a
site at this stage for ideological contestation over cultural meanings. Its
already politicised nature, a result of its historical constituencies,
experimental pedagogies and marginal status, bred strong factional feeling.
Cultural interpretation, therefore, was often formulated against or in
reaction to other well-formed ideological positions, especially Marxism.
An example of the passions raised here, marked the onset of the Cold War.
In a letter to Dobrée he notes:
I should have added, apropos of our work, that there’s a small group of
neo-Thomist tutors–whom I like, but who I suspect are as a result of recent
events, in danger of helping the anti-Communist witch-hunt–one of them,
inspired, it seems, by Middleton Murry’s new book–was talking yesterday
about “fighting the last fight”. I havent (sic) read the book and of course I
care as much about what’s happening in Central Europe as they do–but it
seems to me that for people of any responsibility to start talking like that at
this point is disastrous. I wonder how undergraduates are taking it; it’s the
thirties with a new twist. I feel like a little sober (but by no means flippant)
stoicism–but it’s very fashionable just now.6
to Leavisites, he said the tutor also had to shed the “armour of specialist
language” and talk to the adult student as an equal (Hoggart, 1991, 126).
The redefinition of the subject began to take shape therefore under the
institutional setting of limits and exertions of pressure. Partly it was the
continual need to answer the demand for “relevance” which Hoggart took
to mean more than simply what “could be fitted into the Co-op shopping
bag of ‘social realism’” (ibid, 129). But his most important insight was that
the methods of literary criticism and analysis were relevant to “the better
understanding of all levels of writing and much else in popular culture and
the way people responded to them” (ibid).
Can we see Dobrée in all this? Collini notes how Hoggart distances
himself from the elitism and cultural pessimism of the Leavises and how
much more positive he is about the possibilities of the new media (1999,
226). On rereading UoL he finds it not the sentimental tract of later
criticism but alive with “literary confidence and stylishness” reflected in
experiments in form and its “allusive, learned, manner”; how he takes for
granted the existence of a non specialist audience with “no defensiveness
about transgressing academic norms” (ibid). As we have seen, these
qualities were exactly those Hoggart admired in his mentor at Leeds
University and may have been expected to emulate. But this is perhaps
easy. Ignoring Dobrée altogether, Collini notes how he cultivated a writing
voice “out of Leavis by Orwell” perhaps, and locates him ultimately in the
“family of English moralists” but this too is not quite right.
Hoggart was no more the creature of patrician patronage or critical
school than he was of an unreflected working class culture. By his own
account we can find any number of “influences” lurking in the wings
waiting for recognition like Gosse, Hardy and especially Orwell–not then
on any university reading list. Thus in truth Hoggart has closer affiliations
to the crassly maligned autodidact tradition, so brilliantly documented by
Jonathan Rose, which enabled him to keep an informed critical distance
from all who wanted to sign him up (Rose, 2001).
More than anything it was public institutions that formed his taste and
feeling for class; schools, libraries, universities, adult education, the
serious press and public service broadcasting as institutions with resources
to plunder, time for contemplation, staff for stimulation, peers for
comparison and, crucially, intermediary spaces where class and taste could
be considered from a reflective distance, are his points of reference. His
lifelong commitment to defending and extending such essential
constituents of democracy says it all.
Tom Steele 151
Works Cited
Campbell, Beatrix (1984). Wigan Pier Revisited, London: Virago
Collini, Stefan (1999). English Pasts: essays in culture and history.
Oxford and New York : Oxford University Press.
Hoggart, Richard (1958). The Uses of Literacy. London: Pelican.
—. (1973). “Teaching with Style (on Bonamy Dobrée)”, in Speaking to
Each Other, Vol. II: About Literature. London: Pelican, 189-204. First
pub. 1970.
—. (1988). A Local Habitation London: Chatto & Windus.
—. (1991). A Sort of Clowning, Life and Times 1940-1959. Oxford,
Oxford University Press.
Hoggart, Richard and Raymond Williams (1960). “Working-Class
Attitudes”, New Left Review, No. 1, Jan./Feb., 26-30.
Rose, Jonathan (2001). The Intellectual Life of the British Working
Classes. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.
Steele, Tom (1990). Alfred Orage and the Leeds Arts Club 1893-1923.
Scolar, Aldershot.
—. (2005). “Arnold Hauser, Herbert Read and the Social History of Art in
Britain” in Britain and Hungary 3: Contacts in architecture design, art
and theory, ed. Gyula Ernyey. Budapest, Hungarian University of
Craft and Design, 236-253.
Notes
1
Campbell (1984, 222). For a critique of Campbell’s “positioning” of Hoggart,
which has affected Hoggart’s reputation, see Sue Owen, “Hoggart and Women” in
Richard Hoggart and Cultural Studies (London, Palgrave, forthcoming). Alan
Bennett wrote in a letter responding to a draft of this article: "[Hoggart's] vision of
Cockburn in the dusk is a wonderful creation–I don't know that it needed to be
literary, though. I remember similar elegiac feelings about my school particularly
in my last weeks there–and I'd never thought of it in any literary context (and I
never got round to Hardy for another 30 years at least)." (Alan Bennett, personal
communication, February 2007).
2
Hoggart, undated letter to Dobrée, No.19, Dobrée Collection, Special Collections,
Brotherton Library, University of Leeds.
3
Hoggart, letter to Bonamy Dobrée, No. 26, Dobrée Collection.
4
Hoggart, letter to Dobrée, No.16, Dobrée Collection.
5
Hoggart, letter to Dobrée, No.12, 18 December 1943, Dobrée Collection.
6
Hoggart, letter to Bonamy Dobrée, No.128, Tues. 10 Feb., no year but before
1951, Dobrée Collection. Who this group were is unclear. It may have been
152 Questions of Taste and Class: Richard Hoggart and Bonamy Dobrée
associated with the journal Humanitas, for which Hoggart occasionally wrote or
inspired by the teaching of Father Herbert Rickabee at Manchester University -
some other extra mural staff tutors who converted to Roman Catholicism, possibly
under his influence, included Walter Stein and Roy Shaw at Leeds. Jacques
Maritain’s Art Scholastique, which had recently been translated, may have been a
touchstone for the group.
PROMOTING INTERNATIONAL
UNDERSTANDING AND COOPERATION:
RICHARD HOGGART’S UNESCO YEARS
(1970-1975)
MALCOLM HADLEY
1. An academic’s detour
It was on a BAC 111 flight from Birmingham that Richard Hoggart
arrived in Paris on a leaden-grey low-clouded day in late January 1970, to
take on a new three-year assignment at UNESCO Headquarters there.
The new appointment had come about almost by accident, or better, by
the slow accretion of small events. In the mid-1960s, Hoggart had been
asked to join one of the subcommittees of the UK National Commission
for UNESCO, which had been transferred at that time from the Ministry of
154 Promoting International Understanding and Cooperation:
Richard Hoggart’s UNESCO Years (1970-1975)
new studies on Malay cultures, Slav cultures and Oceanic cultures. The
first Festival of the Arts of the Pacific was held in Fiji. Two series of
cultural studies in Latin America were launched.
In line with the emergence in the 1960s of notions of “cultural
development” and the “cultural dimensions of development”, an
intergovernmental conference on the institutional, administrative and
financial aspects of cultural policies was held in Venice in 1970, and this
gave rise to a series of regional intergovernmental conferences for Europe
(Helsinki, 1972), Asia (Jogjakarta, 1973), Africa (Accra, 1975), and later
for the Americas (Bogota, 1978) and the Arab countries (Baghdad, 1981).
In the field of the cultural heritage, there was a burgeoning of work to
preserve what is now known as the tangible cultural heritage. Several
high-profile campaigns were launched and funds mobilized for the
safeguard and restoration of such sites as Venice, Philae (as the final phase
of the overall Nubia operation), the Buddhist temple and Sanctuary of
Borobudur in Java, and the remains of the Phoenician city of Carthage in
the environs of present-day Tunis.
In 1972, the Convention concerning the Protection of the World’s
Natural and Cultural Heritage was approved by the General Conference,
and this has since developed to become one of the most important
normative instruments in the conservation field, in terms of the protection
of sites and properties of outstanding, universal importance.6 But even
before the Convention became operational, the initial and fundamental
success in the early 1970s was to bring together in a single instrument the
conservation of the natural and the man-made heritage of humankind,
something that had been essentially addressed up till that time as two
separate issues.7
At about the same time, the United Nations Conference on the Human
Environment took place in Stockholm in June 1972, and this led within
UNESCO to several initiatives for developing closer links between the
social and the natural sciences in relation to environmental issues. Also to
address such multisectoral challenges as development and population.
Other significant activities in the sector included taking the lead for the
Organization’s work in favour of human rights, including action against
racism. A consultative group was set up which linked the UNESCO
Secretariat, the International Council for Philosophy and Humanistic
Studies and the International Social Science Council. A major effort was
made to foster teaching and research in social sciences, humanities and
philosophy in developing countries.
158 Promoting International Understanding and Cooperation:
Richard Hoggart’s UNESCO Years (1970-1975)
The order and the phrasing were both deliberate, and aimed at
recognizing all at once the authority of intellectual life, the autonomy of
the NGOs and the constitutional duties of UNESCO. It is perhaps worthy
of note that these sorts of considerations are now (in the early 21st century)
resurfacing anew within the broader international community, through
such initiatives as the Cardoso report on United Nations-civil society
relations (United Nations, 2004) and increasing interest in embedding,
expanding and deepening the participation of different constituencies in
the work of intergovernmental bodies, as part of the process of UN reform
(e.g. United Nations, 2006).
entirely die out with that generation of old people. When an elder dies in
one of our villages, the delegate passionately stated, it’s like a shelf-full of
books is being lost.
Another issue addressed by Richard Hoggart in his UNESCO-related
writings is that of educating pupils and students in the art of critical
literacy in a democracy.14 This means, among much else, training young
people both to understand and value their particular culture but also to
stand outside it and be able and willing to judge it. If the power of
education towards tolerance is an important force, it is not easy, not a
matter of warm injunctions. Again, Hoggart recalled W. H. Auden and his
“We must love one another or die.” That was a call to a sort of tolerance.
Later, he (Auden) altered it, because he thought it phoney, sentimental,
face-saving, to: “We must love one another and die.”
institutional pressure to get this kit published and released without further
delay, with a flurry of internal memoranda in the autumn of 1973 between
those concerned with substance and those concerned with diplomacy and
external relations. Richard Hoggart concluded one such communication as
follows.
For the record, this project is being pushed along by the Sector as fast as
possible, given its inherent difficulties. But there are issues here of
intellectual integrity and so of the reputation of the Organisation as one
able to do a good, hard and objective job even in hot political fields. It is
the maintaining of this reputation that has given our previous publications
on race etc. the effectiveness they have. That is why I am unwilling–no
matter how strong the political pressures–to ask people to work faster than
the quickest speed consistent with doing a good job in terms which uphold
the Organisation’s Charter and its current high reputation in handling hot
issues. (Incidentally, we could go faster if the AAM answered letters more
quickly). In this position, too, I am sure you join me. 15
to tell all and to act in the way that they are told. “Loyalty and leaks” is
what is expected.
With the ending of the Cold War, links between the nationals of some
countries and their delegations have changed. But some of the other
observations of Richard Hoggart on Secretariat members would appear no
less relevant today: the tendency for many–too many–staff to retreat into
the technical, to restrict themselves to a tight servicing role, the provision
of hardware and verbal technicalities; the widespread uneasiness about
introducing ethical considerations into the work, the strong desire to
operate at the level of the factual and pragmatic. Hoggart also commented
damningly “that a great many lack conviction and that the best certainly
don’t wear their convictions on their sleeves” (Hoggart, 1978, 132).
Getting a right balance between specialists and generalists is a long
standing and still continuing debate at UNESCO, one where Hoggart held
firm views. The case for staffing the programme departments with high
grade intellectuals, artists and scientists is strong. But such individuals are
not always good administrators and managers. And specialists, though
they may be at the forefront of their disciplines when they enter the
Organization, may become rusty from sitting at an executive’s desk.
For Hoggart, the solution was to place a solid core of generalists at the
heart of the Organization. They may well have entered the Organization as
specialists, but have come to recognize that that they can carry out
UNESCO’s work with enjoyment and satisfaction, can be competent and
also remain sufficiently aware of developments within their disciplines to
know a promising idea when they see one. Around such a core of people, a
large range of thoroughly up-to-date specialists can be deployed, whether
for periods of a few years within the full-time Secretariat or as short-term
consultants.
Hoggart felt that a basic structure of this kind would do more than any
other single innovation to reduce the worst dog-in-the-manger habits
within the Secretariat. At the same time, he recognized that such a shift
would take years to effect and would be resisted step-by-step by some in
the Secretariat and some Member States. That the debate is still continuing
today might not unduly surprise the Assistant Director-General of the early
1970s.
Malcolm Hadley 165
Hoggart was probably the last world-class intellectual to accept a “permanent” job
at UNESCO. He was invited by the then Director-General René Maheu, another
remarkable intellectual (and man of action). I suppose Hoggart must have accepted
the job because Maheu was the Director-General. They could together sit on the
intellectual Olympus, and discuss or quarrel.
At UNESCO, Hoggart was an inspiring boss, a hard-working Assistant
Director-General, completely on top of his complex, heavy responsibilities. I was
recruited by UNESCO under him, at the age of 29. I remember having been
impressed by his personality, a mixture of intellectual power and simplicity and
directness, totally devoid of any kind of arrogance. A man of working class origin
and a great intellectual. I had never seen this combination before. His talks and
writings display such a combination: a very simple, sober, direct style, far away
from grandiloquence, so common at UNESCO.
One day, I met him in the corridors of the small building over-looking the
Japanese Garden where the Sector of Social Sciences, Humanities and Culture was
located and said ‘Good morning’, obviously with an exaggerated deference. His
reaction was “Don't be so polite, Ali”.
Richard Hoggart belonged to an exceptional, very rare category of UNESCO
people: Julian Huxley, Torres Bodet, Alva Myrdal, Tom Marshall, René Maheu,
Roger Caillois, Alfred Métraux, Jacques Havet. It is a miracle that a bureaucracy,
even one that deals with education, culture and science, could attract such great
minds. Richard left UNESCO shortly after Maheu's retirement. That was the end
of this Organization's ‘trente glorieuses’ (1945-75).
directness and democratic attitude blew like a cleansing wind through the
offices, corridors and meeting halls of a UNESCO already infamous for
contorted bureaucratese, elaborate circumlocution and respectful
submission to centralized power. He delighted many by the way he scolded
hypocritical delegates, the very brief hand-written notes he often preferred
to send in lieu of verbose memos and the informal, no-nonsense
atmosphere he created at working meetings. Others, of course, found all
this a deplorable breach of diplomatic manners and protocol. (Lengyel,
1986, 41).
It was around Christmas time in 1973. Richard Hoggart had invited the junior staff
to his office. He wanted us to tell him how we felt about UNESCO, if there were
any problems, etc. He was genuinely interested in the younger generation of
international civil servants. My work experience prior to UNESCO was with a
national research centre. When I joined UNESCO, I thought it would be the same,
except that the research would be on an international scale.
So that day, I said that I had expected at UNESCO to devote 75% of my time
to intellectual activities and only 25% of my time to administrative matters and
that I was disappointed because it had turned out that I was spending 75% of my
time on administration and only 25% on intellectual questions. Hoggart snapped
back at me "I wish I could spend 25% of my time dealing with intellectual issues!
In fact I spend 100% of my time on administrative problems."
Regulation 1.5 of the United Nations against any staff member or former
staff member who publishes any critical comment on the Organization.
Under Article I dealing with “Duties, Obligations and Privileges”, this
Regulation reads as follows:
Staff Members shall exercise the utmost discretion in regard to all matters
of official business. They shall not communicate to any person any
information known to them by reason of their official position which has
not been made public, except in the course of their duties or by authority of
the Secretary-General. Nor shall they at any time use such information to
private advantage. The obligations do not cease upon separation from the
Secretariat.
Among points mentioned was that all organizations need regular, frank
and fair criticism. UNESCO is one organization that does not get enough
of that. One of its great weaknesses is over-defensiveness, unwillingness
to listen to criticism. This lesson–the value of open critical comment–is
one that the Organization must at last learn, or it will become even more of
an enclosed Byzantine system than it is at present. It is after all the one UN
agency whose constitution enshrines the idea of free speech. Throughout
the world that idea is having a hard time now. UNESCO will not reinforce
the idea among its Member States by refusing to honour it internally. It
must learn to live less self-protectively, more bravely.
Those reflections date back nearly three decades. Some observers
might argue that they remain entirely valid today. More generally, the call
for more rigorous criticism of the ways in which institutions behave and
function is one that has relevance far more widely than the cloistered
concerns of the United Nations and its specialized agencies. As is the call
for institutions to act more courageously.
5. Returning home
Richard Hoggart left Paris in the spring of 1975, to return to academic life
in Britain. He took his leave discreetly. His letter of resignation to the new
Director-General Amadou Mahtar M’Bow was confidential, and he took
special pains to keep it that way. It was carefully worded, without heat,
and polite. Hoggart resisted the advice of some colleagues to make the
letter public. He wanted to give the new Director-General a chance to see
that it is possible for an individual to take an uncomfortable decision out
of personal principle, that not every such action is taken either under
political pressure or to make private capital out of a public gesture.
The Hoggarts left Paris, as they had arrived, at a weekend. They had
arrived by plane on a bitter winter weekend. They left by car on a
“lambent spring Sunday”, travelling largely at first in silence. There was
still much to say and sort out, and they were deeply torn. But they had no
doubt that it was right to go and to go then.
They were conscious that they would miss Paris intensely. They would
miss friends and colleagues; and they would most of all miss UNESCO.
The Hoggarts had invested over the years so much energy, thought,
emotion in that “fantastic bureaucracy” that to leave it was like cutting off
a limb. But they felt that part of themselves would never leave it–both the
idea and reality of UNESCO, the one so idealistic and imaginative, the
other so complex a tapestry of human failings and virtues.
What of a balance sheet on these five years? What did Richard Hoggart
learn and gain from his service as an international civil servant? Some
clues have been suggested in his writings: about governments and the
ways they work, about national and international public personalities who
threw shadows larger than any he had met before, about the much more
melodramatic world outside of parochial Britain and parochial Europe,
about the shabbier sides of nationalism and the nauseous over-concern
with face and protocol.
170 Promoting International Understanding and Cooperation:
Richard Hoggart’s UNESCO Years (1970-1975)
The Constitution “assumed virtues many governments did not and still do not
have, or seek ... UNESCO regularly stubs its toes on the unwillingness of some
highly developed and sophisticated “parliamentary democracies” to live up to the
spirit of the constitution to which they have pledged adherence.”
The Secretariat “yields too much, too often and too soon to improper pressures”.
The Western nations “should remind themselves more often that UNESCO’s
extraordinary Constitution is a Western invention, founded on Western intellectual
values; and that these values are not easily lived up to.”
Quotes are from Hoggart (1978) and other sources. Box adapted from Hadley
(2006).
Malcolm Hadley 171
Acknowledgements
Thanks are given to UNESCO colleagues who have shared recollections of
their work with Richard Hoggart and/or commented on earlier drafts of
this contribution: Gérard Bolla, Raj Isar, Ali Kazancigil, Georges
Kutudkjian, Lisbeth Schaudinn-Braun. Thanks also to Jens Boel and
Mahmoud Ghander in the Archives and Records Management Unit for
their help in making accessible the archival records of the early 1970s.
Works Cited
Association of Former UNESCO Staff Members (AFUS) (2000). René
Maheu, Portrait-souvenir par ses collaborateurs / Recollections by his
staff. Paris: AFUS.
Batisse, Michel and Gerard Bolla (2003). L’invention du “patrimoine
mondial”. Les Cahiers d’ Histoire 2. Paris: AFUS.
Courrier, Yves (2005). L’UNESCO sans peine. Paris: L’Harmattan.
Green, Michael and Michael Wilding (1970). Cultural Policy in Great
Britain. Cultural Policy Series. Paris: UNESCO. (In consultation with
Richard Hoggart).
Hadley, Malcolm (2006). “The Uses of Richard Hoggart”. Lien/Link, 97
(June-September), 16-17. Paris: AFUS.
http://www.unesco.org/afus/LIEN/b97/index_2.htm.
Hoggart, Richard (1972). Only Connect: On Culture and Communication.
The BBC Reith Lectures 1971. London: Chatto & Windus.
—. (1978). An Idea and its Servants: UNESCO From Within. London:
Chatto and Windus.
—. (1993). An Imagined Life. Life and Times Volume III: 1959-91.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
—. (1995a). The Way We Live Now. London, Chatto and Windus.
—. (1995b). The watchful eye of democracy. UNESCO Courier,
(November), 50. Paris: UNESCO.
172 Promoting International Understanding and Cooperation:
Richard Hoggart’s UNESCO Years (1970-1975)
Notes
1
Richard Hoggart’s own description of his life and times at UNESCO provides the
basic source of information for the whole of the present contribution.
2
According to Nicholas Wroe (“The Uses of Decency”. The Guardian. 7 February
2004), the same week that Hoggart accepted the UNESCO post, he was asked to
go to New York University to discuss the Albert Schweitzer chair and was also
offered the vice-chancellorship of the University of Queensland.
3
“A World Apart: UNESCO, 1970-5” was the title of Chapter 6 in the third and
final volume of his Life and Times (Hoggart, 1993).
4
This bannerhead phrase was drafted by Francis Williams, and first uttered at the
founding Conference by Clement Attlee and then, modified by the Library of
Congress’s Archibald MacLeish, found its way into the Preamble to UNESCO’s
Malcolm Hadley 173
16
A range of recollections of René Maheu as Director-General of UNESCO, by
more than thirty members of his staff, have been brought together in a composite
222-page English/French publication published by the Association of Former
UNESCO Staff Members (AFUS, 2002) on the occasion of the twenty-fifth
anniversary of his death. http://www.unesco.org/afus
17
This account is culled from Chapter 7, “The Director General”, in Hoggart
(1978).
18
The impression should not be given that the French do not appreciate Richard
Hoggart and his writings and outlook. The Uses of Literacy and the first volume of
A Measured Life are among his books that have been translated into French.
Background and appreciations are given in Richard Hoggart en France, a
collection of texts based on a symposium held in Marseille in 1994 (Passeron,
1999).
19
Borrowing the title of Robert and Isabelle Tombs’ 2006 study of nearly five
hundred years in the relationship between the British and the French.
20
For example, the List of Members of Secretariat for the Social Sciences, Human
Sciences and Culture Sector for March 1972 contained 148 persons–including 68
so-called professional staff. In February 1974, the list for the renamed Social
Sciences, Humanities and Culture Sector comprised 158 staff (71 Professional
grade, 87 General Service).
21
Whence an initiative over the last year to encourage critical assessments of its
different fields of work. Examples include an international symposium in
November 2005 on “60 Years of UNESCO” and a book on Sixty Years of Science
at UNESCO: 1945-2005 (Petitjean et al., 2006).
22
In remarks on “What is UNESCO?”, on the visit to UNESCO of a delegation
from the United States. 13-14 January 2003.
APPENDIX
77 St Mark’s Place
New York City 3
New York
U.S.A.
Jan 7th, 1958
Dear Mr Hoggart:
Before thanking you for your studies of my work, let me thank you for
The Uses of Literacy which I found fascinating. It is difficult to be
objective when the subject of a book is oneself, but about your sociological
work, I have no doubt whatever that it is first class.
As to the British Council Essay, I can only say that, to me, it seems most
understanding and generous. If I may make a small observation, I think
that what I have always wished, often childishly, to epater is not the
bourgeois, but all conceptions of artistic decorum. What I have always
tried for – and, of course, often failed to achieve – is to carry the notion of
Mixed Style to its limits. The most antipathetic literature in the world to
me, is French Classical Drama, Racine, Corneille etc. (I don’t know if you
have read Auerbach’s wonderful book Mimesis: he puts his finger exactly
on what I dislike).
As regards the bourgeois, I am, as you know, middle-class, and count
myself lucky to have been born in it. Whatever their faults, the middle
[class] have realised and introduced into civilization two great virtues,
integrity about money and a devotion to work. The aristocracy did not pay
their debts, and the peasants, naturally enough, reacted by cheating them
when they could. The aristocracy thought work beneath their dignity, and
to the poor, by and large, work was pure work, ie had no element of play
in it because there was scarcely any element of choice.
To me, for instance, Sir Walter Scott is a bourgeois saint – having gone
bankrupt through no fault of his own, he worked himself to death to pay
his creditors. I grew up in a family where there was always enough money
to pay for necessaries, the butcher, the grocer etc – but any luxuries had to
be saved for. Consequently, I have a horror of debt – I like to pay bills by
return post and I have never in my life bought anything on Installment.
Again – this may be rather neurotic – I feel guilty about indulging in any
pleasure unless I can feel that I have done enough work to deserve it.
Letter from W. H. Auden to Richard Hoggart 177
I see you object to “Intendant Caesars left, slamming the door”: you are
probably right, but what I had in mind was a remark made, I think, by
Goebbels: “If we are defeated, we will slam the door of history behind us.”
One little technical point. The principle of the ‘long line’ poems like In
Praise of Limestone is syllable counting (e.g. 13:11) but with elision of all
contiguous vowels and through h.
Once again, many thanks. Is there any chance of your being in the
neighborhood of Oxford during the Trinity Term which is the period of my
annual visit? It would be so nice if we could meet.
Yours sincerely,
W. H. Auden
CONTRIBUTORS
Ben Clarke received his doctorate from the University of Oxford, and has
taught in Taiwan, the United States and Britain. He is currently a Lecturer
in English at the University of Newcastle upon Tyne. He has published on
utopian literature, Western representations of Taiwan, George Orwell, and
Virginia Woolf. His first book, Orwell in Context: Communities, Myths,
Values was published by Palgrave Macmillan in 2007, and he is currently
writing a monograph on politics and aesthetics in the nineteen-thirties.
European cultural history. His books include: Alfred Orage and the Leeds
Arts Club, Scolar Press (1990), The Emergence of Cultural Studies,
(Lawrence and Wishart, 1997) and with Richard Taylor and Jean Barr, For a
Radical Higher Education, After Postmodernism, (Open University/SRHE
Press, 2002). His most recent study is Knowledge is Power! The Rise and
Fall of European Popular Education Movements 1848-1939, (Peter Laing,
2007).
93, 95-6, 103-118 passim, Leavis, Q. D., xvi, xx, 4, 58, 79,
121, 125-126, 128, 131, 134, 121, 122, 142
142, 150, 176 Lengyel, Peter, 166
“A Very English Voice”, 96 Levi, Primo, 54
The Way We Live Now, 16, 31, Lewis, C. S., 29
35 Lodge, David, xii
“Why I Value Literature”, 63 The Picturegoers, 1, 2, 4
Horkheimer, Max, xxvii Small World, 17
Hughes, Bill, xxvii Lowry, L. S., 134
Humphreys, Arthur, xi, 32 Macherey, Pierre, 54
Huxley, Julian, 156, 159 MacIntyre, Alasdair, 11, 12, 13, 21,
Inglis, Fred, 31 23, 27
Jameson, Storm, 148 Maheu, René, 163
Joad, C. E. M., 15 Marcuse, Herbert, 138
Johnson, Paul Marx, Karl, 48
The Vanished Landscape, 131- McKibbin, Ross, 121, 122, 134
133 McNiece, Louis, 148
Johnson, Samuel, 34 Middleton Murry, John, 149
Kazancigil, Ali, 165 Mill, John Stuart, 14
Keynes, John Maynard, 13, 15 Montaigne, Michel de, 33
Kramer, Jacob, 145 Moore, Henry, 145
Kutukdjian, Georges, 165 Moorman, Frederic, 145
Lady Chatterley trial, x, xxi, 6, 62, Morris, William, 43
85-6, 89, 91-2, 94, 96 Mulhern, Francis, xxviii
Lane, Allen, 87 Orage, Alfred, 147, 148
Larkin, Philip, 87 Orwell, George, xx, 4, 5, 36, 43, 47,
The Less Deceived, 3 49, 53, 62, 74-7, 81, 87, 104,
Laski, Harold, 43 127, 132, 142, 147, 148, 150
Lawrence, D. H., xxi, 79, 80, 85- “Inside the Whale”, 5
102 passim, 104, 127 “Politics and the English
“Climbing Down Pisgah”, 96 Language”, 53
“Introduction to His Paintings”, "The Prevention of Literature",
96 54
“John Galsworthy”, 96 The Road to Wigan Pier, 5, 51,
“Sex versus Loveliness”, 96 54, 77
“The State of Funk”, 96 Osbourne, John, 104
Lady Chatterley’s Lover, 7, 86, Look Back in Anger, 3
87 Passeron, Jean-Claude, xxv, xxxi,
Sons and Lovers, 79, 89, 94, 95 xxxv
Women in Love, 96 Peirce, C. S., 21
Leavis, F. R., xvi, xx, 4, 18, 24, 58, Phillips, Adam, 34
62, 64, 79, 87, 121, 122, 147, Pilkington Committee on
150 Broadcasting, xii, xxi, xxii, 7,
D. H. Lawrence: Novelist, 88, 97 19, 34
Pilkington Report, xxii, 7, 34
Re-Reading Richard Hoggart 185