In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:A Myth Of ReadingAlfred LouchThe Myth of Theory, by William Righter; x 7 224 pp. Cambridge University Press, 1994, $49.95.IThe critics mill about in the welcome break between interminable and terminal conference sessions, eager to see and be seen. William Righter wanders about, listening and telling anyone who stays to listen what he hears, musing all the while on what each of them has done, or tried to do, (...) or failed to do. One hopes for a dénouement—something, perhaps, like the tableau at the end of The Inspector General: critics frozen in typical and typically ludicrous attitudes. Alas, the prospective tone of ironic detachment is not sustained. Righter is too close to his perambulating colleagues; he shares too many of their academic reflexes to keep the requisite distance. If there is a tableau at the end, the reader must imagine it, and place Righter along with the rest, caught in (may we call them?) Gallosaxon attitudes.It seems to be an important conference. Everyone’s milling about. One wonders, do they have anything else to do? Here’s Derrida, de Man, Barthes, Hillis Miller, Booth, Bersani, Lyotard, Poulet, and Todorov. The remarks of one seem to flow seamlessly into the allegedly counter-claims of the next. It’s all amazingly friendly. Of course there’s that rude fellow Eagleton, who says: “Methodologically speaking, literary criticism is a non-subject.... If literary theory is a kind of meta-criticism [End Page 218], a critical reflection on criticism, then it follows that it too is a non-subject” (p. 210). But don’t mind him. For criticism is about literature and literature exists. So these promenading and posturing critics can’t be mere phantasms of brains fevered by much reading, or anyway by references to many books.Curious that the first critic available for a chat is Leavis. A bit of nostalgia that. I suppose most English critics of sufficient vintage recall their Leavis-inflicted wounds the way they might reminisce about the bit of shrapnel they got in the way of on Omaha Beach and bear now with pride. But my, how temperate he appears here! How on earth can he come across so bland? Remember him saying: Snow does not begin to exist as a novelist. Now that was Leavis. You may have disagreed with him, you may have thought him silly, but you certainly understood him, as one comprehends a slap in the face. But here: “... Leavis takes on vividly and personally the total responsibility of consciousness for a wide area of assumptions that obviously trail their implications behind them” (p. 4). This is an extraordinarily spongy way of saying that Leavis knew he was right, and if you didn’t agree with him, a humiliating place in a cheap and tawdry consumer society awaited you.Still, it is a lucky thing that Leavis appears first on the scene. As a critic to help frame more exactly the kinds of questions about literary theory and practice Righter wants to ask, Leavis offers an easily recognizable starting point. He somehow manages to take the high moral ground. You want to ask, how is it that Elijah’s mantle descends on him? Does he compel assent only by the stridency of his words, and not by an ostensibly rational way in which his critical judgments hang together?A pity if this should be so, because the point of Leavisite diatribes, though not their excesses, is close to the hearts of passionate readers. Such readers (ourselves perhaps) read judgmentally. A book bowls us over. Describing the experience we are tempted to draw invidious comparisons to other books, which perhaps move us less, or not at all. We say of minor things that come our way: it’s not Shakespeare (or D. H. Lawrence). If you agree the project comes to an end. If you don’t, you want to know what it is that bowls us over, and why we don’t find those qualities in your favorite author. You want an explanation of a particular kind, not one that adduces new facts, but one that allows us to appreciate how the case at dispute... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Sick with PassionAlfred LouchOpera: Desire, Disease, Death, by Linda and Michael Hutcheon; xvi & 294 pp. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996, $40.00.IDriving east from the Auvergne you may chance upon La Chaise-Dieu, a charming village where a very acceptable cafe confronts the fortress-like Abbatiale de St Robert across the village square. The church itself is an imposing monument to the ephemeral glory of the Avignon Pope Clement VI, (...) but its most extraordinary feature is a fresco in the aisle to the left of the choir. Called the Danse Macabre, it depicts death as a sequence of skeletons, each of which beckons, pleads with, consoles, or compels its many victims—young and old, rich and poor, exalted or mean—toward their inevitable end. At times the skeleton’s posture is sinister and threatening, at others, as with children, it seems to turn away, as if to shield them from its fearful aspect. The skeletons seem to catch the movement of a single dancer as they select one partner after another, taking the life of each in a graceful though ghastly movement.The fresco depicts the Black Death—art inspired by disease and contagion. But even if you were as innocent of history as the typical American tourists you would confront in the fresco the undeniable image of death, and the caprice of its visitation, a thought contrasting strangely with the enduring granite of the church. Your experience may be enriched by history and lead you to moralize on the contrast [End Page 155] between the pomp and grandeur of the papal builder and the fresco’s depiction of the vanity of human wishes. But it would be a jarring note if some know-it-all in the company of viewers were to lecture for all to hear on the transmission and symptoms of pasteurella pestis. That is another story, and an interesting one, but not here and now.And so it is, if not so abrasively, with a recent book by Linda and Michael Hutcheon on desire, disease, and death in opera. They hope to shed new light, by combining literary analysis and the medical theory of disease and contagion, on the themes and purposes of opera, or certain operas anyway. Somehow the passages on mycobacterium tuberculosis, treponema pallidum, and vibrio cholerae, together with graphic descriptions of the symptoms caused by these micro-organisms, and an accompanying photograph of syphilitic gummæ seem intrusive, just as talk about the etiology and the pathology of the plague strikes a discordant note as we look upon the Danse Macabre in wonder and fear. The Hutcheons, a husband and wife team who practice, respectively, medicine and literary criticism, tell the reader they are opera lovers. I hope their affection is not prompted only by infection.But why shouldn’t medicine and its history be relevant to literary, artistic, or musical creation? Think here of a question Wittgenstein asks in Zettel (paragraph 610): “Why should there not be a psychological regularity to which no physiological regularity corresponds? If this upsets our concept of causality then it is high time it was upset.” He did not mean to say that it would not be surprising if someone talked and acted and looked like a person but turned out to have an empty skull. But he did mean surely that talk about human projects and emotions is complete as it stands; what is going on in the neurons and what busy microbes are doing are other stories. Literature is about human projects, the skill or clumsiness with which they are pursued, the responses to success and failure, achievement and frustration. Opera, which, ever since someone had the idea of putting story to song, raided literary invention for its subject matter, is the same. Heroes and villains may of course be expected to be vulnerable to the various vicissitudes of life. Diseases may lay them low, as well as passing trains. But disease enters their stories to delay or frustrate or put period to their projects, not as new characters on the stage. If you read about the death of Ivan Illych and come away dissatisfied because Tolstoy failed to identify the... (shrink)