by C. S. Lewis
Hence, one’s first experiences of real joy in the arts did not appear as rivals to one’s previous humdrum pleasures. When as a boy I passed from Lays of Ancient Rome (which are not nearly bad enough to make the point clear, but will have to serve—my father’s shelves were deficient in really bad books) to Sohrab and Rustum, I did not in the least feel that I was getting in more quantity or better quality a pleasure I had already known. It was more as if a cupboard which one had hitherto valued as a place for hanging coats proved one day, when you opened the door, to lead to the garden of the Hesperides: as if a food one had enjoyed for the taste proved one day to enable you (like dragon’s blood) to understand the speech of birds: as if water, besides quenching your thirst, suddenly became an intoxicant. One discovered that the old, familiar phenomenon ‘Poetry’ could be used, insisted on being used, for a wholly new purpose. Such transitions are simply misrepresented by saying ‘the boy began to like poetry’, or ‘began to like better poetry’. What really happens is that something which has lain in the background as one of the minor pleasures of life—not radically different from toffee—leaps forward and envelops you till you are (in Pepys’s sense) ‘really sick’, till you tremble and grow hot and cold like a lover.
I suspect, therefore, that we must never say, simply, that some men like good art and some men like bad. The error here lurks in the verb like. You might as well infer from the French uses of aimer that a man ‘loves’ a woman as he ‘loves’ golf and start trying to compare these two ‘loves’ in terms of better and worse ‘taste’. We have, in fact, been the victims of a pun. The proper statement is that some men like bad art: but that good art produces a response for which liking is the wrong word. And this other response has, perhaps, never been produced in anyone by bad art.
Never? Are there not books which produced in us the very ecstasy I have described (in youth) and which we now judge to be bad? There are two answers. In the first place, if the theory I am suggesting works for most cases, it is worth considering whether the apparent exceptions may not be only apparent. Perhaps any book which has really excoriated any reader, however young, has some real good in it, and secondly—but that, I must postpone till next week.
I was suggesting last week that bad art is never really enjoyed in the same sense in which good art is enjoyed. It is only ‘liked’: it never startles, prostrates, and takes captive. Now if I say that, I come up against a difficulty. It has never been better put than by that fine and neglected artist Mr Forrest Reid. In the little autobiography called Apostate he describes his delight, as a boy, in Miss Marie Corelli’s Ardath. Even at that age the last part seemed to him ‘so bad that it weakened the impression of what had gone before’. But that earlier impression remained. Perhaps wisely Mr Reid has not risked an adult re-reading. He has feared that ‘its gorgeousness would all too likely strike me as vulgarity, its passionate adventure as melodrama, its poetry as a crude straining after effect’. But none the less, adds Mr Reid (who is as little likely as any man alive to be deceived in such a matter), there is no use in ‘pretending that the old pleasure was not an aesthetic pleasure at all. It was. That is the whole point’, and he contributes the important suggestion: ‘What I got then probably was the Ardath of Miss Corelli’s imagination; what I should get now would be the very much less splendid Ardath of her actual achievement.’
This diagnosis may not be correct. Mr Reid may have got the Ardath of the author’s imagination, or he may have got the Ardath of his own: that is, he may really have been enjoying an embryonic composition of his own stimulated by mere hints in the book. But it is not necessary to decide between these two possibilities. The point is that, on either view, he was enjoying the book not for what it really was but for what it was not. And this sort of thing very often happens when the reader is imaginatively superior to the author, and is also young and uncritical. Thus for a boy in the first bloom of his imagination the crudest picture of a galleon under sail may do all that is necessary. Indeed he hardly sees the picture at all. At the first hint he is a thousand miles away, the brine is on his lips, her head rising and falling, and gulls have come to show that undiscovered country is near.
What I will not admit is that this overthrows, in general, the principle that bad art never enraptures. It may overthrow the ready application of that principle as a measuring rod. So much the better. We want to be sure that there is a real distinction between good and bad, that what we call advances in our own taste are not mere valueless fluctuations. It is not equally necessary, it may not even be desirable, that we should know with certainty, in any particular instance, who is wrong and who is right. Now the existence of mirages (such as that which, for Mr Reid, did not result from but rested on the words of Miss Corelli) does not overthrow the principle. In the mirage we enjoy what is not there—what we are making for ourselves or, it may be, remembering from other and better works of which the work before us is a reminder. And this is something quite distinct from the great mass of ‘liking’ or ‘appreciation’ for bad art. The patrons of sentimental poetry, bad novels, bad pictures, and merely catchy tunes are usually enjoying precisely what is there. And their enjoyment, as I have argued, is not in any way comparable to the enjoyment that other people derive from good art.
It is tepid, trivial, marginal, habitual. It does not trouble them, nor haunt them. To call it, and a man’s rapture in great tragedy or exquisite music, by the same name, enjoyment, is little more than a pun. I still maintain that what enraptures and transports is always good. In the mirages, this good thing is not where we suppose it to be, namely, in the book or picture. But it may be good in itself—just as an oasis is a good thing though it exists a hundred miles away and not, as the desert traveller sees it, in the next valley. We have still no evidence that the qualities really present in bad art can do for anyone what good art does for some. Not because bad art gives pleasure but because it gives a wholly different kind. Let us not be sidetracked by asking whether the distinction is between ‘aesthetic’ pleasure and some other kind. By certain philosophical definitions both are probably aesthetic. The point is that no one cares about bad art in the same way as some care about good.
If this is so then we are not really presented with rival experiences in art between which we have to choose in order to ‘form a good taste’—or not on the level which I am considering. Beyond that level, when we have eliminated what is admitted to be bad by everyone who criticises at all, the critical problem may break out. You may decide that Berlioz is inferior to Bach or Shelley to Crashaw. But I suggest that any work which has ever produced intense and ecstatic delight in anyone—which has ever really mattered—has got inside the ring fence, and that most of what we call ‘popular’ art has never been a candidate for entry. It was not trying to do that: its patrons didn’t want it to do that: had never conceived that art could do that or was meant to.
The criterion of good art would on this view be purely empirical. There is no external test: but there is also no mistaking it. And I would go further. I would suggest that the subtler critical discriminations—the ones that only begin inside the ring fence—always (and quite rightly) involve more than aesthetic criteria. Thus you tell me that what I experienced on first hearing the Prelude to Parsifal was inferior to what you experience in hearing Bach’s Passion Music. I am sure you are right. But I do not think you mean, or ought to mean, that Wagner is bad art in the sense in which much popular music is bad art. It is inside the ring fence. The musical comedy tunes which I hummed as a boy were not valued by me in the same sort of way as Parsifal. There was never any possibility of competition. And when you go on to call Wagner ‘bad’ (in a much higher and subtler sense) you always bring in what are really either technical or moral considerations—the latter, in artistic circles, being often veiled from those who use them. Thus you condemn the Wagner as banal, or obvious, or facile (which are technical), or as vulgar, or sensual, or barbarous (which are moral). And I think you proceed quite rightly. I only plead
that none of these criteria is needed, or is ever in fact used, in our preliminary distinction between ‘real’ or ‘good’ or ‘serious’ art and what is obviously ‘bad’ or (merely) ‘popular’ art. This was never a competitor. Wagner is ‘good’ by the mere fact that he can become the most important thing in life to a boy for a whole year or more. After that, decide as you please. ‘Goodness’ in the sense which I am referring to is established.
Some muddled people cannot understand how an axiom (say, that about things which are equal to the same thing) can be known to be true. It could not if the mind found, on this subject, any alternative proposition. But there is no alternative proposition: there is a sentence which looks (grammatically) like a proposition but is not one—for if you pronounce it nothing happens in your mind. In the same way, there is no experience alternative to that of good art. The experiences offered by bad art are not of the same sort. The world is not full of people who get out of The Monarch of the Glen what you get out of Tintoretto, any more than it is full of people who get drunk on water. I might as well suppose that the transitory flicker of curiosity with which I pause, passing a cricket field, to see the next ball bowled is the same as the delirious interest of a crowd at a football match.
XIX
ON CRITICISM
I want to talk about the ways in which an author who is also a critic may improve himself as a critic by reading the criticism of his own work. But I must narrow my subject a little further. It used to be supposed that one of the functions of a critic was to help authors to write better. His praise and censure were supposed to show them where and how they had succeeded or failed, so that next time, having profited by the diagnosis, they might cure their faults and increase their virtues. That was what Pope had in mind when he said, ‘Make use of every friend—and every foe.’ But that is not at all what I want to discuss. In that way the author-critic might no doubt profit, as a critic, by reviews of his critical work. I am considering how he could profit, as a critic, by reviews of his non-critical works: his poems, plays, stories, or what not; what he can learn about the art of criticism by seeing it practised on himself; how he can become a better, or less bad, critic of other men’s imaginative works from the treatment of his own imaginative works. For I am going to contend that when your own work is being criticised you are, in one sense, in a specially advantageous position for detecting the goodness or badness of the critique.
This may sound paradoxical, but of course all turns on my reservation, in one sense. There is of course another sense in which the author of a book is of all men least qualified to judge the reviews of it. Obviously he cannot judge their evaluation of it, because he is not impartial. And whether this leads him, naïvely, to hail all laudatory criticism as good and damn all unfavourable criticism as bad, or whether (which is just as likely) it leads him, in the effort against that obvious bias, to lean over backwards till he under-rates all who praise and admires all who censure him, it is equally a disturbing factor. Hence, if by criticism, you mean solely valuation, no man can judge critiques of his own work. In fact, however, most of what we call critical writing contains quite a lot of things besides evaluation. This is specially so both of reviews and of the criticism contained in literary history: for both these always should, and usually try to, inform their readers as well as direct their judgement. Now in so far as his reviewers do that, I contend that the author can see the defects and merits of their work better than anyone else. And if he is also a critic I think he can learn from them to avoid the one and emulate the other; how not to make about dead authors’ books the same mistakes that have been made about his own.
I hope it will now be clear that in talking about what I think I have learned from my own critics I am not in any sense attempting what might be called an ‘answer to critics’. That would, indeed, be quite incompatible with what I am actually doing. Some of the reviews I find most guilty of the critical vices I am going to mention were wholly favourable; one of the severest I ever had appeared to me wholly free from them. I expect every author has had the same experience. Authors no doubt suffer from self-love, but it need not always be voracious to the degree that abolishes all discrimination. I think fatuous praise from a manifest fool may hurt more than any depreciation.
One critical fault I must get out of the way at once because it forms no part of my real theme: I mean dishonesty. Strict honesty is not, so far as I can see, even envisaged as an ideal in the modern literary world. When I was a young, unknown writer on the eve of my first publication, a kind friend said to me, ‘Will you have any difficulty about reviews? I could mention you to a few people. . . .’ It is almost as if one said to an undergraduate on the eve of a Tripos, ‘Do you know any of the examiners? I could put in a word for you.’ Years later another man who had reviewed me with modest favour wrote to me (though a stranger) a letter in which he said that he had really thought much more highly of my book than the review showed: ‘But of course,’ he said, ‘if I’d praised it any more the So-and-So would not have printed me at all.’ Another time someone had attacked me in a paper called X. Then he wrote a book himself. The editor of X immediately offered it to me, of all people, to review. Probably he only wanted to set us both by the ears for the amusement of the public and the increase of his sales. But even if we take the more favourable possibility—if we assume that this editor had a sort of rough idea of what they call sportsmanship, and said, ‘A has gone for B, it’s only fair to let B have a go at A’—it is only too plain that he has no idea of honesty towards the public out of whom he makes his living. They are entitled, at the very least, to honest, that is, to impartial, unbiassed criticism: and he cannot have thought that I was the most likely person to judge this book impartially. What is even more distressing is that whenever I tell this story someone replies—mildly, unemphatically—with the question, ‘And did you?’ This seems to me insulting, because I cannot see how an honest man could do anything but what I did: refuse the editor’s highly improper proposal. Of course they didn’t mean it as an insult. That is just the trouble. When a man assumes my knavery with the intention of insulting me, it may not matter much. He may only be angry. It is when he assumes it without the slightest notion that anyone could be offended, when he reveals thus lightly his ignorance that there ever were any standards by which it could be insulting, that a chasm seems to open at one’s feet.
If I exclude this matter of honesty from my main subject it is not because I think it unimportant. I think it very important indeed. If there should ever come a time when honesty in reviewers is taken for granted, I think men will look back on the present state of affairs as we now look on countries or periods in which judges or examiners commonly take bribes. My reason for dismissing the matter briefly is that I want to talk about the things I hope I have learned from my own reviewers, and this is not one of them. I had been told long before I became an author that one mustn’t tell lies (not even by suppressio veri and suggestio falsi) and that we mustn’t take money for doing a thing and then secretly do something quite different. I may add before leaving the point that one mustn’t judge these corrupt reviewers too harshly. Much is to be forgiven to a man in a corrupt profession at a corrupt period. The judge who takes bribes in a time or place where all take bribes may, no doubt, be blamed: but not so much as a judge who had done so in a healthier civilisation.
I now turn to my main subject.
The first thing I have learned from my reviewers is, not the necessity (we would all grant that in principle) but the extreme rarity of conscientiousness in that preliminary work which all criticism should presuppose. I mean, of course, a careful reading of what one criticises. This may seem too obvious to dwell on. I put it first precisely because it is so obvious and also because I hope it will illustrate my thesis that in certain ways (not of course in others) the author is not the worst, but the best, judge of his critics. Ignorant as he may be of his book’s value, he is at least an expert on its content. When you have planned and writte
n and re-written the thing and read it twice or more in proof, you do know what is in it better than anyone else. I don’t mean ‘what is in it’ in any subtle or metaphorical sense (there may, in that sense, be ‘nothing in it’) but simply what words are, and are not, printed on those pages. Unless you have been often reviewed you will hardly believe how few reviewers have really done their Prep. And not only hostile reviewers. For them one has some sympathy. To have to read an author who affects one like a bad smell or a toothache is hard work. Who can wonder if a busy man skimps this disagreeable task in order to get on as soon as possible to the far more agreeable exercise of insult and denigration. Yet we examiners do wade through the dullest, most loathsome, most illegible answers before we give a mark; not because we like it, not even because we think the answer is worth it, but because this is the thing we have accepted pay for doing. In fact, however, laudatory critics often show an equal ignorance of the text. They too had rather write than read. Sometimes, in both sorts of review, the ignorance is not due to idleness. A great many people start by thinking they know what you will say, and honestly believe they have read what they expected to read. But for whatever reason, it is certainly the case that if you are often reviewed you will find yourself repeatedly blamed and praised for saying what you never said and for not saying what you have said.
Now of course it is true that a good critic may form a correct estimate of a book without reading every word of it. That perhaps is what Sidney Smith meant when he said, ‘You should never read a book before you review it. It will only prejudice you.’ I am not, however, speaking of evaluations based on an imperfect reading but of direct factual falsehoods about what it contains or does not contain. Negative statements are of course particularly dangerous for the lazy or hurried reviewer. And here, at once, is a lesson for us all as critics. One passage out of the whole Faerie Queene will justify you in saying that Spenser sometimes does so-and-so: only an exhaustive reading and an unerring memory will justify the statement that he never does so. This everyone sees. What more easily escapes one is the concealed negative in statements apparently positive: for example in any statement that contains the predicate new. One says lightly that something which Donne or Sterne or Hopkins did was new: thus committing oneself to the negative that no one had done it before. But this is beyond one’s knowledge; taken rigorously, it is beyond anyone’s knowledge. Again, things we are all apt to say about the growth or development of a poet may often imply the negative that he wrote nothing except what has come down to us—which no one knows. We have not seen the contents of his waste paper basket. If we had, what now looks like an abrupt change in his manner from poem A to poem B might turn out not to have been abrupt at all.