Critical Theory Today A User-Friendly Guide - (13 Gaining An Overview)

13 Gaining an overview
If you’ve read several of the preceding chapters, you may be feeling a bit over-
whelmed both by the amount of information you’ve consumed and by the various
ways in which many critical theories overlap with one another. The following
questions are offered, not as a summary of the schools of criticism we’ve discussed
but as ways to organize your thoughts as you reflect on what you’ve learned and
decide which theories you’d like to pursue further. Certainly, “Some Questions
Critics Ask about Literary Texts” and “Questions for Further Practice” (which
preceding chapters provide as specific guidelines for applying the critical theories
they describe) are more thorough than the brief questions listed below. However,
the questions that follow offer you a kind of bird’s-eye overview of the theories
we’ve studied and, therefore, an opportunity to see more generally the ways in
which critical theories both resemble and differ from one another.
Psychoanalytic Criticism – How is the text shaped by its (intentional or uninten-
tional) representation of the psychological desires, needs, and conflicts of its
characters (or the psychological desires, needs, and conflicts of its author)?
Marxist Criticism – How is the text shaped by its (intentional or unintentional)
representation of capitalism and/or classism? Does this representation support
or undermine these oppressive socioeconomic ideologies?
Feminist Criticism – How is the text shaped by its (intentional or unintentional)
representation of patriarchal norms and values? Does this representation support
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or undermine these oppressive norms and values?

New Criticism – Is the text a great work of literature? That is, does it have both
organic unity and a theme of universal significance?
Reader-Response Criticism – How do readers make meaning as they read the text,
and what is the relationship between the meaning they make and the text?
Structuralist Criticism – What is the underlying structural system (for example,
archetypal, modal, or narratological) by which we make sense of the text?
Structuralist critics often refer to a text’s underlying structure as its grammar,
which might be expressed as a kind of “mathematical formula” that represents
the functions of characters and their actions.
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Gaining an overview 449
Deconstructive Criticism – What do we learn about the ideology (or ideologies)
operating in the text by analyzing the text’s self-contradictions rather than by
trying to resolve those contradictions into some overarching theme?
New Historicism – How does the text participate in the interpretation of history?
Specifically, what role does the text play in the circulation of discourses (ways of
using language that are associated with particular ideologies, such as the dis-
courses of liberal humanism, Christian fundamentalism, or white supremacy)
prevalent in the culture from which the work emerged and/or prevalent in the
culture(s) in which the work is interpreted?
Cultural Criticism – Especially in regard to working-class cultural productions (such
as popular fiction and movies) and to comparisons of working-class productions
with the productions of “high” culture (such as canonized literature), what cultural
work does the text perform? That is, how does the text transmit and transform
the ideologies that support and/or undermine the sociopolitical power structure
at the time the text was produced and/or over the course of its reception?
Lesbian, Gay, and Queer Criticism – How is the text shaped by its (intentional or
unintentional) representation of LGBTQ sexuality? Does this representation
support or undermine heterosexism? For queer theory, specifically, how does the
text illustrate the inadequacy of our traditional way of thinking about sexuality
and sexual orientation?
African American Criticism – How is the text shaped by its (intentional or unintentional)
representation of race and racial difference? Does this representation support or
undermine racist ideologies?
Postcolonial Criticism – How is the text shaped by its (intentional or unintentional)
representation of cultural difference (the ways in which race, class, sex, gender,
sexual orientation, religion, cultural beliefs, and customs combine to form indi-
vidual identity)? Does this representation support or undermine colonialist
ideologies?
Although these questions focus on the interpretation of literary texts, I trust

that by this point you are fully aware that each theoretical lens alters the way we
perceive ourselves and our world as well. To cite just one example, African
American criticism, considered in its broadest context, asks us to see what we can
learn by examining the ways in which race (for example, perceptions of racial dif-
ference, the history of race in America, and racism) informs our individual and
collective identity; our interpersonal relationships; our history; and our cultural
productions, including but not limited to literature. Thus, taken together, critical
theories enlarge our understanding not only of literary works, though that is a
worthwhile end in itself, but also of human experience in general.
I’m sure you’ve noticed that some of the schools of criticism listed above are
overtly political: their goal is to change society for the better in some way. Other
theories see themselves as “apolitical,” as removed from the forces that shape his-
tory and politics. A striking example of this kind of theory is New Criticism, which
was the dominant force in literary studies in the late 1940s and 1950s and which
saw itself as occupying a purely aesthetic realm. However, most critical theorists
today recognize that all critical theories are produced by historical realities and have
political implications whether or not their advocates are aware of those realities and
implications.
For example, many politically oriented theorists believe that the creation of a
purely aesthetic realm of literary analysis is itself a political move that reflects a
desire to escape history, a desire to carve out a “safe” space where one can feel
protected from the unpredictable and often frightening realities of the world.
However, a critical practice that ignores political reality does not thereby remove
itself from politics. It merely protects, however inadvertently, whatever power
structure is in place by drawing our attention away from that power structure. From
this perspective, it is not surprising that New Criticism rose to prominence and
that structuralism emerged in the years following World War II, when the fear of
nuclear holocaust was at its height and, therefore, the belief in a permanent realm
of ideas beyond the reach of human events was especially appealing. Indeed, “apolitical”
theories always serve conservative power structures.
One could analyze, in a similar fashion, the historical roots and political implica-
tions of any critical theory. Of course, the historical roots and political implications of
some critical theories are more obvious than those of others. For example, feminist
criticism, African American criticism, and lesbian, gay, and queer criticism grew
directly out of political movements: respectively, the women’s liberation, Black Power,
and gay and lesbian liberation movements of the late 1960s, although the intellectual
roots of all three schools of criticism are as old as the struggle for equality regardless
of sex, race, or sexual orientation. Similarly, Marxist criticism is a response to social
injustice, as are, in large part, postcolonial, new historical, and cultural criticism.
On the other hand, the political or “apolitical” orientation of psychoanalytic,
reader-response, and deconstructive criticism depends entirely on the individual
critic and the purpose for which the theory is used. For example, the psycho-
analytic reading of The Great Gatsby offered in Chapter 2 is “apolitical” (that is, it
ignores politics and thus does nothing to alter the political status quo) because it
focuses on dysfunctional love as an individual, or familial, disorder. Had I, instead,
examined the novel’s representation of dysfunctional love as a product of modern
American culture – perhaps as a product of the intersection of capita-
lism, patriarchy, and other ideological forces – I would have produced an overtly
political psychoanalytic reading (or, depending on how I focused the essay, a
psychoanalytically oriented Marxist or feminist reading).
Similarly, reader-response criticism can function “apolitically” when, for example,
it examines how texts elicit particular reading experiences, as we saw in the section
on affective stylistics in Chapter 6. Or reader-response criticism can have a political
function when, for example, it examines the ideological motives informing the way
certain literary works have been read by whole generations of critics. Deconstruc-
tion, too, is “apolitical” when it is used to show that the meaning of a text is
undecidable: the text’s meaning can’t be pinned down and, therefore, the text has
no meaning in the traditional sense of the word. Certainly, if a text has no mean-
ing, it has no politics. In the hands of other practitioners, however, deconstruction
can be a powerful political tool when it is used to reveal the ideological contra-
dictions – the hidden politics – operating in a text, as we saw in the deconstructive
reading of The Great Gatsby offered in Chapter 8.
In short, the meaning and power of every critical theory depend largely on you.
Critical theories are tools in your hands, no more, no less. You can choose one
theory and interpret literature through that lens alone, or you can become adept at
using two, three, or more theories, even combining the insights they offer as you
interpret a single literary work. You might produce, for example, an African Amer-
ican reading that draws on Marxist, psychoanalytic, and feminist concepts in order to
interpret the representation of racial difference in a literary work. Or you might
produce a feminist reading that draws on postcolonial and reader-response concepts in
order to analyze what you consider a recurrent misreading of a literary work
written, for example, by a West Indian woman. In fact, it is not unreasonable to
argue that, in order to be really proficient at applying some critical theories, it is
necessary that you familiarize yourself with the theories on which they draw. For
many Marxist, feminist, postcolonial, African American, and lesbian/gay/queer critics
draw on one another’s theoretical frameworks as well as on such theories as psycho-
analysis, deconstruction, reader-response theory, and semiotics in order to analyze the
myriad forms and processes of oppression and the resistance to oppression.
The theory or theories you choose to use for a particular reading, however,
should depend mainly on two factors: (1) your own ability to use the theory, and
(2) the literary text to which you plan to apply it. For in order to produce a useful
reading you need a good fit, both between yourself and the theory you choose and
between the theory you choose and the literary text. Not all literary texts lend
themselves equally well to all theories. So part of your skill must involve recogniz-
ing when to apply which theory. Like any skill worth acquiring, it takes practice.
Don’t be discouraged by initial difficulties you may encounter. Your violin has to
squeak quite a bit before you learn to play Mozart.
And if I may offer one more warning, don’t dismiss a theory because you find it
has some flaws. It’s easy to find fault with critical theories. They all have flaws.
That’s part of what it means to be a theory rather than a fact. For example, how
can a literary work be its own context, as New Criticism claims it is? Isn’t that a
logical absurdity, a violation of the definition of context? Or how can psychoanalysis
omit or marginalize sociological factors in the creation of the psyche, when the
family (which psychoanalysis holds responsible for the formation of the psyche) is
itself a sociological entity?
Finding faults in a theory, however, does not necessarily render that theory less
helpful for literary interpretation. And if we practice faultfinding too soon in our
learning process, we can overlook the enormous usefulness of many theories as our
tendency to dismiss them grows, a tendency that is fed, it seems to me, by our
understandable desire to feel less intimidated by critical theory. The logic is inviting
but very self-defeating: if a critical theory is flawed, then it’s not so important that
I become proficient at it, and I don’t have to worry about my difficulties with it. So
I urge you very strongly to postpone the “critique mode” for a while, at least until
you have thoroughly familiarized yourself with a range of theories by using them to
interpret literature.
Before I send you off on your own to do those readings, however, I’d like to
share with you a recent experience that I think reflects both the personal and the
political nature of critical theory and literary interpretation. I briefly described my
feminist, postcolonial, and queer readings of The Great Gatsby to an interested friend
who loves to read literature but who knows nothing about critical theory. He
immediately asked, “Are any of the theories you use in your textbook in harmony
with the novel?” “They all are,” I hastened to assure him. “I wouldn’t apply a theory
to a literary work if it distorted the work,” I explained. “No,” he said, “I mean, do
all the theories find something wrong with the novel?”
Then it hit me. He’s right! Almost all the theories I used have led me to con-
clude, in effect, that the novel is ideologically flawed in some way. If I put all these
flaws together, I come up with a statement something like this: “The Great Gatsby is
a classist, sexist, homophobic, racist, colonialist novel that romanticizes the evils of
capitalism, glorifies dysfunctional love, and, as if that weren’t enough, creates an
indeterminate reading experience that invites us to project our own beliefs and
desires onto the text.” Yet The Great Gatsby is also one of the most moving and
exquisitely written literary works it’s ever been my pleasure to read. How can that be?
Perhaps the better question is, How can that not be? Few critics would deny that
Fitzgerald had one of the best ears for language ever bestowed on an American
writer or that The Great Gatsby is one of the most lyrically beautiful, masterfully
crafted works ever produced. At the same time, the novel was written in 1924 by a
young white man struggling for acceptance by the upper class and for literary
recognition that he did not achieve during his lifetime. And if his biographers are
to be believed, including those biographers who admire his work and appreciate the
difficulties he suffered in life, Fitzgerald was a man of his time who had all the
ideological biases that a man of his time could possibly possess. How could these
elements not appear in the work that he believed would be his greatest achieve-
ment and into which he poured himself so completely? In fact, even had Fitzgerald
not shared all the ideological biases that inform his novel, those biases would have
appeared in the work in some form because The Great Gatsby was intended as a
chronicle of the 1920s, of the author’s own generation – or at least of the elite white
population with whom the author was acquainted – and Fitzgerald was an extremely
accurate observer of human behavior. In short, the times were ideologically flawed
even if the author hadn’t been.
Yet I didn’t really see these flaws as “something wrong with the novel,” as my
friend put it. I was so excited by my ability to see the appalling ideologies my
theories were helping me uncover that I forgot to be appalled by them. Yes, the
novel is ideologically appalling, a fact we mustn’t forget. And the novel is intensely
beautiful as well. This is the contradiction I try to sustain as I continue to
appreciate both the incomparable artistry of The Great Gatsby and the theories that
show me the multiple layers of its disquieting subtext. Sustaining that contradiction
in Fitzgerald’s novel and in all the literature I read is, I believe, one of the greatest
pleasures that reading through a theoretical lens offers us. It may be an acquired
taste. If so, I would be very happy if the book you hold in your hands helped you
acquire it.

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13 Gaining an overview

or undermine these oppressive norms and values?

Although these questions focus on the interpretation of literary texts, I trust

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