The political potential of art lies only in its own aesthetic dimension.
For a long time, what made American literature distinctive, even exceptional, was held to be its aesthetic particularity: its characteristic “organic form,” its embrace of romance rather than realism, its colloquial style, or some other discovered or invented aesthetic quality.1 Then it came about that this critical use of aesthetic categories to identify and analyze American literature was considered spurious and politically suspect—held to constitute a dangerous and morally blameworthy evasion of history and political reality. So for many years the predominant approach in American literary studies, as in many other sectors of the academic humanities, was a politically engaged historicism, and the aesthetic dimension was consciously dismissed (although never, to be sure, successfully avoided) as a matter of minor importance, trivial distraction, or accidental detail. In recent years, this dismissal has come to seem, to many of us, limiting or deforming to critical inquiry and scholarly investigation—and so it comes about that aesthetic questions return to the critical conversation, perhaps in fruitful conjunction with the historicist and political questions that have earned their central position in our inquiries.
American Literature’s Aesthetic Dimensions is inspired by the literary criticism of scholars written in the last several decades. We envision this volume as both a critical and companionate piece to Sacvan Bercovitch and Myra Jehlen’s seminal Ideology and Classic American Literature.2 Call it what you will—“ideology critique,” “new historicism,” “cultural studies”—the transformation from understanding American literature as, in the words of Richard Poirier, “a world elsewhere,” as an aesthetic object removed from and resistant to the vicissitudes of historical context, to reading literature as profoundly social, has greatly illuminated and complicated our sense of literature’s relation to culture.3 None of the essays in this volume, despite their engagement with questions of aesthetics, departs from the fundamental premise that literature is engaged in what Jane Tompkins famously dubbed “cultural work,” which requires a critical methodology that “looks for continuities rather than ruptures, for the strands that connected a novel to other similar texts, rather than for the way in which the text might have been unique.”4 This methodology, of course, has a politics, which Tompkins quite powerfully explains in relation to her own graduate school career, where Harriet Beecher Stowe was a footnote to Mark Twain, where an appreciation of narrative complexity meant that popular novels went unread, where Nathaniel Hawthorne’s success was understood solely as a function of his genius and had nothing to do with a complicated network of publishers and reviewers who helped to establish Hawthorne’s place in the canon. We do not think any of the contributors to the present volume would dispute this general account of the state of literary criticism in the late 1960s; however, what these essays do is recalibrate the relation between the literary and the social to see if and how the terms purposefully excluded, but not entirely banished, from Tompkins’s account—particularly those that fall under the sign of the aesthetic—might be of value and worth acknowledging explicitly once again. She wrote, “I have not tried to emphasize the individuality or genius of the authors in question, to isolate the sensibility, modes of perception, or formal techniques that differentiate them from other authors or from one another” (xv). And yet in her influential reading of Uncle Tom’s Cabin she wrote that Stowe’s novel was “a brilliant redaction of the culture’s favorite story about itself—the story of salvation through motherly love” (125). Tompkins’s analysis did not isolate Stowe from cultural “modes of perception, or formal techniques,” but it certainly “differentiated” Stowe from the likes of certain other authors, such as Mary Jane Holmes and E. D. E. N. Southworth, to name just two hugely popular novelists of the period who, like Stowe, often wrote that “culture’s favorite story about itself.” The point to be made with this example (and we shall develop this claim further) is that even the staunchest practitioners of ideological critique deploy, whether explicitly or only implicitly, aesthetic criteria. While Tompkins may not want to “differentiate,” she nevertheless does so. It is difficult to think of a more aesthetically loaded pronouncement (one that distinguishes Uncle Tom’s Cabin as “brilliant” on the basis of its narrative form); that it is located in a critical text so committed to questioning the aesthetic is fascinating. The essays in the present volume think through this paradox—can one use the language of aesthetics in a way that does not reproduce the conceptual blindnesses that ideology critique worked to address? Indeed, might questions of sensibility, perception, and form now be put to use, not from a retro-position of political naïveté or New Critical “art for art’s sake,” but rather from a critical position informed by theoretical developments of the last several decades? Is it possible to talk about “aesthetics” and also to heed Fredric Jameson’s call to “always historicize”?5 And what would this literary criticism look like? The essays in American Literature’s Aesthetic Dimensions answer these questions.
Let us make clear from the start that this volume does not pretend to represent all of American literature and culture. No set of essays could do so, but our goal has been to put together a collection with a breadth and depth of content that, when brought together, represents a critical intervention into how we might rethink the question of aesthetics and American literature. That said, we have tried to achieve some degree of temporal coverage, ranging from the eighteenth to the twenty-first century. The effects of the critiques of the canon, about which we will have more to say, are exemplified by the heterogeneity of the essays, which centrally address such noncanonical writers (some of them representing minority literary formations) as Phillis Wheatley, Constance Fenimore Woolson, Earl Lind, Sekou Sundiata, and Juliana Spahr (not to mention the Carpenters!), along with canonical authors such as Herman Melville, Stephen Crane, and Henry James. Despite the absence of work on Native American or Latino/a or Asian American writers, we believe that the essays assembled here (on noncanonical texts, by African American writers, gay authors, aural and visual forms, and popular culture) will provide critics working on genres, forms, and texts not featured in this volume with a valuable set of interpretive templates.
The purpose of this introduction is to delineate the place of aesthetics in literary criticism, more generally, and then to analyze the role aesthetics has played in American literary criticism in particular. Arguably, the study of American literature and culture has been as thoroughly hostile, in recent years, to aesthetic questions as any other academic field in the humanities. But what are we talking about when we talk, once again, about “aesthetics”? It will be seen quickly enough by readers of this collection that the contributors are by no means agreed upon the answer to this question—upon what counts as an aesthetic phenomenon or experience, or, indeed, what constitutes the “aesthetic dimension” of the collection’s title.6 It has always been the case that aesthetics was a contested term and, likewise, it has always been true that philosophers and critics have used the term in different and sometimes contradictory ways. The American writer, editor, and educator Elizabeth Palmer Peabody, who in 1849 published the first and only issue of a journal she called Aesthetic Papers, wrote in her introduction, explaining her choice of the word aesthetic in the title, that of all such terms in common use “perhaps no one conveys to the mind a more vague and indeterminable sense than this,” characterizing aesthetic as “this vague, this comprehensive, but undefined word” and contending that it would be useless to refer to a dictionary or encyclopedia to help determine its meaning.7 Formal philosophy has nevertheless attempted to define its meaning in various ways, to determine its intrinsic signification or legislate its normative essence, but, again, it will be seen by readers of this collection that formal philosophical definitions play a distinctly subordinate role in the essays that follow. The contributors are literary and cultural scholars and critics who tend to mean a variety of things by aesthetic and generally use it for heuristic rather than strictly philosophical purposes—to open up new avenues of inquiry rather than to inhibit or delimit research and criticism. A quick and dirty list of what counts as aesthetic herein would have to include the play of imagination, the exploration of fantasy, the recognition and description of literary form, the materiality of literary inscription and publication, the pleasure of the text, sensuous experience in general, the appreciation of beauty, the adjudication and expression of taste, the broad domain of feeling or affect, or some particular combination of several of these elements.8 Given the current state of cultural studies, which has for some time been suspicious of aesthetics and even sometimes hostile to aesthetic approaches—and has largely preferred to focus its attention first and foremost on matters of society, history, ideology, politics, and power—it seems wise not to close down prematurely the possible value of a renewed aesthetic dimension to our critical researches and analyses, better not to attempt to prescribe a single definition of aesthetic, but to grant the term its “vague and indeterminable sense” (as Peabody said) and encourage a variety of investigations under its aegis.
Many of the essays here might be understood as efforts “to risk alternate forms of aesthetic engagement,” in Rita Felski’s terms.9 They suspend (in some measure) or subordinate (to a degree) certain reflexive habits of critical demystification—the general attitude Paul Ricoeur famously dubbed the “hermeneutics of suspicion”10—to recover and redeem something that may have been nearly lost, and certainly has been usually bracketed and generally suppressed, in most Americanist scholarship of the past several decades. Felski again: “Once we face up to the limits of demystification as a critical method and a theoretical ideal, once we relinquish the modern dogmas that our lives should become thoroughly disenchanted, we can truly begin to engage the affective and absorptive, the sensuous and somatic qualities of aesthetic experience” (76). Felski is essentially appealing to a notion of the aesthetic that is quite archaic, perhaps deriving remotely from the early eighteenth-century German philosopher Alexander Baumgarten’s original coinage of the term aesthetics and his definition of it as “a science of sensitive knowing (scientia cognitionis sensitivae)” or “a science of how things are to be known by means of the senses (scientiam sensitive quid cognoscendi).”11 Although we might well heed Peabody’s warning to stay away from dictionaries or encyclopedias in an effort to nail down the meaning of aesthetic, it has been almost a reflex of recent critical attempts to reopen aesthetic approaches and questions to do so, to advert to the derivation of the English term from its Greek origin. To quote one especially concise and apt philological and historical summary, from Susan Buck-Morss (who quotes another such summary, from Terry Eagleton), “Aisthitikos is the ancient Greek word for that which is ‘perceptive by feeling.’ Aisthisis is the sensory experience of perception. The original field of aesthetics is not art but reality—corporeal, material nature. As Terry Eagleton writes: ‘Aesthetics is born as a discourse of the body.’ It is a form of cognition, achieved through taste, touch, hearing, seeing, smell—the whole corporeal sensorium.”12 Buck-Morss goes on to argue that “one might rather place [aesthetics] within the field of animal instincts” (6–7) or what Eagleton calls “our creaturely life” (13). Indeed, a number of philosophers have recently undertaken to rehabilitate a form of aesthetic theorizing that is frankly prosensualist, ranging from Ekbert Faas’s rereading (under Nietzsche’s tutelage) of the entire history of Western philosophical reflection on aesthetic experience as a regrettably puritanical attempt to exorcise “sex, sensuality, sensuousness” from aesthetics to Richard Shusterman’s proposal for a “somaesthetics,” which envisions a return to “Baumgarten’s broad practical vision of aesthetics,”13 uniting reflection upon the sensorium with practical bodily disciplines, and tellingly draws much of its inspiration from the American pragmatist philosophers William James and John Dewey.14
Whatever direction(s) the return to aesthetics takes in the near future, whether “prosensualist” or “new formalist” or “affective” or other, these possibilities all are united by a certain negative impulse or by a negation of a prior negative impulse—what Nancy Bentley, in her essay in this volume, tellingly references as our “disenchant[ment] with disenchantment.” This new resistance to the resistance to aesthetics may find some powerful inspiration in the later writings of Sacvan Bercovitch, whose influential work was so powerfully productive of the very turn to ideological analysis that has now, perhaps, started to run out of steam.15 It is worth remembering how magnetically energizing it seemed when, for example, in The Puritan Origins of the American Self, Bercovitch insisted, on the book’s final page, at the culmination of an intricate argument about the long historical persistence of an American myth of representative selfhood, on “the importance of ideology (in the Marxist sense) in the shaping of the United States.” Less often noticed (but hiding in plain sight) is the sentence immediately following this invocation of “ideology,” a sentence in which the key terms nimbly bring us back to the aesthetic dimension: the “persistence of the myth is a testament to the visionary and symbolic power of the American Puritan imagination.”16 The collection of essays Bercovitch edited with Myra Jehlen, mentioned earlier, Ideology and Classic American Literature, is often cited as a watershed moment, a consolidation in great form of the turn to ideology critique.17 But an earlier collection of essays edited by Bercovitch went under the title The American Puritan Imagination: Essays in Revaluation, which amounted to a defense of the aesthetic in a scholarly field dominated by attention to the intellectual framework of American Puritanism (à la Perry Miller) at the expense of its creative power and imaginative value.18 Even less often noticed, however, are several of Bercovitch’s own subsequent writings in which he cautions against the divorce of ideological analysis from aesthetic analysis, two approaches he considers to be, together, the “constitutive parts of literary history.” “Reverence for art, like all forms of idolatry, is the road to mystification,” he bluntly asserts. But “the separation of aesthetic from cognitive analysis,” he goes on to say, this “false dichotomy,” comes at a high cost to searching inquiry and fruitful dialogue.19 Elsewhere, using slightly different terms, Bercovitch grants approvingly that “cultural studies is here to stay,” but expresses a “hope that as it grows and flourishes it will preserve the literary in what still remains literary and cultural studies. What is at stake here is not just an issue of aesthetics but, more important … the prospects of open dialogue in the humanities.”20
These admonitions of Bercovitch’s—which might be said to draw a bright line under the ineluctable interest in aesthetic questions he and others have exhibited all along—date from the 1990s, but have been remarkably slow to gain real traction. Bercovitch’s celebrated book on Hawthorne, The Office of “The Scarlet Letter,” was itself a practical demonstration of the inextricable entanglement of aesthetic and ideological matters and the necessary critical virtue of keeping their dynamic interrelationship in constant play.21 The professional academic resistance to aesthetics has been nearly intractable, however, and the wariness exhibited even by some of those who once again feel the pull of the aesthetic dimension is palpable. Several signal moments, large and small, might be cited as evincing the halting return to aesthetic questions in American literary studies, among them the special issue of American Literature coedited (with Russ Castronovo) by one of our contributors, Christopher Castiglia, in 2004, under the title “Aesthetics and the End(s) of Cultural Studies”; another collection, edited by Emory Elliott, Louis Freitas Caton, and Jeffrey Rhyne, Aesthetics in a Multicultural Age; yet another collection, The Aesthetics of Cultural Studies, edited by Michael Berubé; and a recent issue of the journal Representations, entitled “The Way We Read Now,” coedited by Sharon Marcus and Stephen Best, that proposes a notion of “surface reading” as an antidote to the habits of symptomatic reading that have held sway for a good long time.22 This last collection is especially interesting, and—we might say—symptomatic of what Castiglia and Castronovo in their introduction to the special issue of American Literature frankly called the “aversion to aesthetics” that has generally prevailed among “the public and professional cultures of academia” (1). Best and Marcus, in their introduction, eschew the language of the aesthetic nearly entirely, although it would seem to be a category perfectly well suited to their purposes; they associate aesthetics with “the broad field styled as ‘New Formalist,’” but do not embrace the term as their own; among the contributors to their special issue, several are studiously averse to the term while others use it freely; and the authors of the afterword also carefully avoid it.23 At the same time, Best and Marcus voice reservations about the political efficacy of academic work in the humanities and acknowledge that their style of surface reading “might easily be characterized as politically quietist, too willing to accept things as they are” (16). Might abjuring the category of the aesthetic—paradoxically—have something materially to do with the risk of political quietism? Although the aims of the present volume are in many ways compatible with those of the proponents of “surface reading,” we choose to adopt aesthetic as a usable term precisely because its history involves the discipline of a careful attention to surfaces and appearances, to the sensible textures of things, and its history also preserves the conviction that social and political life always has a sensory and perceptual dimension.
With this history of aesthetics and this summary framing of recent developments in mind, we can now discuss the deployment of this term (and category) in accounts of American literature. The critique of aesthetics assumes a variety of different forms, with differing emphases, and this is the case because aesthetics is so capaciously defined. That said, virtually all works of literary criticism that position themselves against aesthetics contain some kind of accusatory statement about aesthetics as universalizing, as dehistoricizing, as problematically privileging literary discourse over other discourses, as depoliticizing (which is, in itself, of course, politicizing). Again, we can turn to Jane Tompkins as representative of this particular position: “It is the notion of literary texts as doing work, expressing and shaping the social context that produced them, that I wish to substitute finally for the critical perspective that sees them as attempts to achieve a timeless, universal ideal of truth and formal coherence” (200). What is “substituted” for aesthetics (“timeless,” “universal,” “formal coherence”) is historicizing, politicizing, specifying, as in taking account of gender, race, region, and class, and popularizing, as in engaging with popular texts. This substitution, however, is not a simple one. Using the language of mathematics, while discussing the relative simplicity of characters in popular novels, Tompkins argues that their “familiarity and typicality, rather than making them bankrupt or stale, are the basis of their effectiveness as integers in a social equation” (xvi). It is hard to imagine an account of character (and text) more committed to a notion of “formal coherence” than this, or a statement of universality more complete than this one: “a novel’s impact on the culture at large depends … not on its departure from the ordinary and conventional, but through its embrace of what is most widely shared” (xvi).
Despite this and other inconsistencies in certain critical accounts skeptical of aesthetics, particularly around the issue of formalism, which we shall discuss in greater detail, this work of historicization and politicization has wrought tremendous and much-needed change in the canon of American literature as well as the methodologies, including feminism, deconstruction, and postcolonialism, that have been brought to bear on the field. Thus, Tompkins is absolutely correct when she says that “an entirely new story begins to unfold” when one approaches texts from a perspective that “reverse[s] the negative judgments” of past critics (xvii). But as necessary and hermeneutically fruitful and historically nuanced as that critical position has been, it also depends, ironically, upon reifying the aesthetic as it renders ahistorical questions of taste, beauty, affect, and feeling.24 We agree that the aesthetic cannot be understood apart from ideology, but we also think that yet another “new story” might unfold if we revisit aesthetics with the methodological and theoretical knowledge gained from critics of the last several decades. In an elegant statement that anticipates this volume, Richard Brodhead presciently writes in Cultures of Letters, one of the most important new historicist monographs to come out of the 1990s: “The most compelling reason for studying the social relations of literary forms is that this dimension has been so long and so systematically ignored. Once this territory has been scouted as thoroughly as some others, visiting it will become comparatively less rewarding.”25 Might “the social relations of literary forms” be reintroduced to their aesthetic relations?
Along with other scholars in the profession, we have begun to wonder if the category of the aesthetic (and the artifacts that have been designated as “aesthetic”) was worth revisiting with a less suspicious attitude. We wanted to examine whether aesthetics was useful only insofar as it was one more exemplification of the operations of what Louis Althusser has described as “ideological state apparatuses.”26 Or/and does that category (and do those objects) also provide us with a framework and a vocabulary that give us deeper insight into how we read, what we read, and why we read? It is time to revisit our position vis-à-vis aesthetics and specifically the way that aesthetics has been cast as a subservient handmaiden to the hegemony of ideology.27
As should be evident, the goal of this volume is not to resuscitate aesthetic categories in order simply to go back to a New Critical moment when the text stood alone as an object of study, cordoned off from the putatively disfiguring effects of politics, biography, production, and reception—in other words, context; rather, the aim is to reintroduce aesthetic categories—such as style, form, beauty, pleasure, imagination, in order to demonstrate the ways in which aesthetics and politics are dialectically engaged. That dialectical engagement, however, is the donnée of all these essays, which then seek to go beyond that and explicate how a broadly conceived notion of aesthetics—its properties, its effects, its representational status—better equips us to analyze that engagement and, in doing so, gives a set of interpretive tools that allows us to get past the habitual reduction of aesthetics to ideology. The essays comprising American Literature’s Aesthetic Dimensions open up this homology in order to provide examples of how literary critics might move forward as they reposition American literature’s aesthetic dimensions in relation to its ideological ones.
Indeed, one of the primary reasons for this volume (that sense of something missing) has to do with how that homology has defined (and limited) analyses of American literature.28 In offering the following partial survey of American literary criticism over the last several decades, we have chosen certain representative texts that we believe most directly take up the case against aesthetics, though by no means does this survey do justice to the wide-ranging and numerous contributions made by scholars in the field. With that caveat in mind, let us turn again to one of the defining texts of the 1980s, Ideology and Classic American Literature (1986), in which the contested relation between aesthetics and politics is, as in this volume, the impetus for a set of ambitious and powerful essays. When Sacvan Bercovitch, in his afterword, wished to critique the American ideology that is “adopted from the start precisely for its capacity to transmute radicalism of all forms, from religious protest to revolutionary war, into forms of cultural consensus,” he described that ideology as an “aesthetic flowering” (436). Aesthetic flowering, which is the direct result for Bercovitch of the production of the “‘representative’ American” (436), however, comes with thorns. We might take John Carlos Rowe’s work on literature and imperialism as representative of a critical unease with what that flowering implies; his aim in Literary Culture and U.S. Imperialism is to “follow the logic of a text without lapsing into trivial formalism or celebration of literary ambiguity or linguistic undecidability.”29 Presumably, trivial formalism (and Rowe describes his method as “anti-formal”) is one that fails to “use the text to gain access to a wider historical and cultural field of debate and inquiry”; in other words, a formalism that is designated by the term aesthetics.
“Aesthetic criteria” (23), elsewhere referred to as “conventional aesthetic standards,” are, in Rowe’s analysis, the problem that animates everything from New Criticism to structuralism to deconstruction. They cordon off the canonical from the noncanonical, thereby limiting our exposure to and understanding of historical contexts. They tend to focus on “the moral conclusions and aesthetic pleasures of the middle-class novel” (15). And they privilege literature as a domain outside ideology (in a footnote, Rowe alludes to “traditional literary study which often tacitly supports an aesthetic ideology” [302n36]). The solution is a cultural history paradigm that “assess[es] the literary work’s relative contributions to social consensus and social reform” rather than a model of “literary criticism [that] ha[s] often focused on a text’s aesthetic value” (19). Perhaps Janice A. Radway’s Reading the Romance, with its methodological commitment to offering “less an account of the way romances as texts were interpreted than of the way romance reading as a form of behavior operated as a complex intervention in the ongoing social life of actual social subjects” is the most radical exemplar and apogee of the critique of aesthetics.30 We shall have more to say about Radway’s work, but for now it is worth observing that, for her, the logical outcome of a critique of “aesthetic achievement” is a methodology that disavows the canon, interpretation, and the text.
Rowe’s and Radway’s similar critiques of literary criticism, on the grounds of its putative focus on the aesthetic, do not stand alone. Indeed, “a turn to aesthetic questions,” writes Donald Pease in Visionary Compacts, allowed F. O. Matthiessen to “devise a national consensus” that converted “the conflicting claims” of antebellum political rhetoric into “the achieved art of the American Renaissance.”31 Aesthetics, for Pease, is the stuff of “rarified struggle” (10) as opposed to the real, which comprises “divisive political questions, as well as pre-Civil War cultural context” (10). Whereas Pease’s goal is to release the cultural context of canonical texts held in check by Matthiessen’s attention to aesthetics, the work of Rowe and Tompkins, as well as that of Cathy N. Davidson, aimed to subvert the notion of the canon itself. Their readings of everything from “The Black Elk Narratives” to Hannah Webster Foster’s The Coquette to Susan Warner’s The Wide, Wide World reveal a desire to expand our sense of what counts as literature and the literary. And this is so because of a shared sense that the dismissal of their archive is based on “grounds which have come to seem universal standards of aesthetic judgment” (Tompkins 123). In fact, it is important to keep in mind that the aesthetic has been deployed to keep certain authors in the canon and others out. In challenging traditional and historically decontextualized definitions of “aesthetic judgment,” works by women, African Americans, Native Americans, queers, and other previously all but invisible writers have been able to find their place in the critical discourse. Henry Louis Gates’s magisterial collection of African American texts from the Schomburg Library is evidence of how critiques of the canon have not only enlarged but also reconstituted the field of American literature.32 Cathy N. Davidson puts the point this way in her essential Revolution and the Word, which helped to make Susanna Rowson’s Charlotte Temple and Hannah Foster’s The Coquette indispensable for an understanding of early American literature: “What we read shapes how we read—a reversal of the usual critical presupposition” and an “imperative toward canonization, toward the creation of a univocal history … requires the exclusion of what does not fit into the a priori definition of precisely what is to be defined.”33
For many of these critics, the turn away from aesthetics has as much to do with an argument about the canon as with a particular claim about literature’s relation to culture, that it has no special relation to culture that would enable a text to mount a critique of the social or “redefinition” of it, to use Tompkins’s word (xi). Davidson, for example, distinguishes her work from “traditional literary criticism,” which she defines this way: “literature is not simply words upon a page but a complex social, political, and material process of cultural production” (viii). For these critics, the ultimate value of literature inheres in what it has to say about the social world, and because the aesthetic (somehow) seems separate from that world, or obstructs our understanding of that world, we must turn away from it.
This critical approach is sometimes described as new historicism, and among its eclectic inspirations are the deconstructive work of Jacques Derrida, Paul de Man, and others who became known as the Yale school, as well as the theoretical works of Michel Foucault and the thought of cultural anthropologists such as Clifford Geertz. It is worth briefly rehearsing the theoretical engines of new historicism because the terms they have given us—terms such as writing and discourse, for example—are now such a crucial part of our interpretive fabric as to seem almost invisible, perhaps even commonplace. Although this discussion will move us away, for the time being, from the topic of aesthetics, it is a necessary digression because these theories have had an enormous influence on how we define literature and how we practice literary criticism. The question of aesthetics and the status of the literary text are pivotal, even when the term is out of sight.
Let us begin with deconstruction. In his introduction to Paul de Man’s Blindness and Insight, Wlad Godzich explains “that there is no difference of being between what is within and what is without the frame: they are both of representation.”34 Challenging the distinction between within and without, between signifier and signified, between text and context, is a crucial feature of deconstruction, and Jacques Derrida puts it this (inimitable) way in Of Grammatology: “The outside bears with the inside a relationship that is, as usual, anything but simple exteriority. The meaning of the outside was always present within the inside, imprisoned outside the outside, and vice-versa.”35 What this means, according to another Yale school literary critic, Geoffrey Hartman, is “that writing cannot be an antidote to anything except itself, that it questions its own representational claims by a repetition that phantomizes presence.”36 The key term for Derrida is writing, which is understood as a representation that seems to signify something real, but in fact refers only to the absence of the real, only to itself and the fact of its own status as representation. Its repetition merely creates the illusion of presence.
It would seem as if deconstruction, and its close reading of specific texts or, more precisely, specific words in the most canonical of texts (and here we have in mind de Man’s reading of Jean Jacques Rousseau and Marcel Proust and Derrida’s reading of Saussurean linguistics), has little to do, whether conceptually or methodologically, with new historicism and its disciplinary Luddism. Let us remind ourselves, however, of Foucault’s eloquent account of the poet in The Order of Things, where he notes: “the poet is he who beneath the named, constantly expected differences, recovers the buried kinships between things, their scattered resemblances. Beneath the established signs, and in spite of them, he hears another, deeper, discourse.”37 What “writing” is for Derrida, “discourse” is for Foucault. In The Archeology of Knowledge, Foucault gives literary critics both a definition and a methodology: “The frontiers of a book are never clear-cut: beyond the title, the first lines, and the last full stop, beyond its internal configuration and its autonomous form, it is caught up in a system of references to other books, other texts, other sentences: it is a node within a network…. its unity is variable and relative. As soon as one questions that unity, it loses its self-evidence; it indicates itself, it constructs itself, only on the basis of a complex field of discourse.” For Foucault, this scattering of unities and understanding of the “interplay of relations within it [the book or any other literary statement or event] and outside it” serves to answer the key question, “how is it that one particular statement appeared rather than another?”38
In terms of the aesthetic stakes of this argument, the Foucauldian discursive network is constituted by a variety of texts from a variety of disciplines, leaving open the question of whether or not aesthetic discourse should be granted a certain privileged status by virtue of its beauty (as compared to, say, psychological discourse), self-awareness (relative to, say, ethnographic discourse), or its breadth of referentiality (relative to, say, economic discourse). In large part, the role of the new historicist critic is the reconstruction of this “network,” the optimal result being what anthropologist Clifford Geertz famously called the “thick description” of cultural discourse.39 One might think that critics would be torn between the deconstructive assumption that texts eventuate in “an ultimate impasse of thought engendered by a rhetoric that always insinuates its own textual workings into the truth claims of philosophy” and the Foucauldian imperative to challenge the “frontiers of a book” by offering a thickly descriptive account of “a complex field of discourse.”40 The fact is that they share some fundamental principles, including a focus on “representation,” an insistence on the porousness of discursive boundaries, and a methodology that discovers the fiction, the aporia, that generates the seeming fact. Gillian Brown’s Domestic Individualism makes the theoretical connection quite overtly in her introduction where she discusses how her “deconstructionist approach” allows for what we might call great discursive latitude: “in my presentation of the cohabitation of the individual with the economic, material conditions and mental states coalesce.” Moreover, in an interpretive move that turns the outside inside (and vice versa), she argues that “the individual [himself] shares the definitive principle of domesticity: its withdrawal from the marketplace.” In addition, Brown’s deconstructive approach begins with an understanding of the self that is “continually under construction, or at least renovation,” is dissatisfied with any analysis that produces “a unitary politics” or “totalizing force,” and is characterized by a profound skepticism about binaries, whether it be public/private, male female, person/machine, inside/outside.41
What does this mean for the aesthetic? It means what Brodhead said it means: a radically new and productive way of understanding “literary forms in relation to social relations.” It does so first by leveling the playing field, in the sense that literature takes its place as one more discourse in the cultural field, which includes economics, psychology, sociology, etc., and, second, it produces the author as one more site where these discursive combinations are seen to operate. This resituation of the literary text—which had for so long been constructed as a unique object untouched by social context and was then being understood as fully imbricated in that context—infused literary criticism with renewed energy and conviction. The explosive impact of deconstruction on literature’s “aesthetic dimension” can be found perhaps most provocatively in Walter Benn Michaels’s The Gold Standard and the Logic of Naturalism, in which he writes, “the only relation literature as such has to culture as such is that it is part of it.” The notion of literature as “posit[ing] a space outside the culture in order then to interrogate the relations between that space (here defined as literature) and the culture” is one that Michaels in particular and new historicists more generally worked to dispel. To use one of Michaels’s examples, one should not expect to get from “The Yellow Wallpaper” an understanding of Gilman’s relation to capitalism because it “seems wrong to think of the culture you live in as the object of your affections: you don’t like it or dislike it, you exist in it, and the things you like and dislike exist in it too.” What you can get from it, however, is an “exemplif[ication] [of] that culture.”42 A similar claim is made by Wai-chee Dimock in her analysis of Melville’s career, Empire for Liberty, where she argues: “what each book invokes, affirms, and defends is always the principle of imperial freedom, a principle of authorial license embedded in a technology of control. In that regard, Melville dramatizes the very juncture where the logic of freedom dovetails into the logic of empire … where the imperial self of Jacksonian individualism recapitulates the logic of Jacksonian imperialism.”43
In one of the most illuminating readings of Melville, Dimock explains how his works repeatedly recapitulate a logic of individualism that is itself a recapitulation of the logic of empire. Melville’s literary accomplishment and value, for Dimock, exists primarily in relation to its exemplification of Jacksonian democracy, as his literary production gets absorbed under the rubric of cultural production. But, as we saw in the case of Tompkins, that “substitution” of the literary by the social is not always exact, and we would contend that the latent valorization of the literary that quietly subtends Dimock’s analysis is crucial to the power of her argument. Without using the term aesthetic and without overtly granting special privilege to Melville’s work, the fact is that her readings, time and again, derive value and specificity (separate and apart from the social value she is most interested in illuminating) from the language of aesthetics and the language of Melville’s art. We would submit that as much as Melville’s novels discursively intersect with “Horace Mann’s rhetoric of social cataclysm” (108), Melville’s rhetoric is considerably more pleasurable, more stylistically and formally complex than Mann’s. Dimock explains, “Melville is not just placating the reader [in Redburn]; he is also representing the act of placating, a double operation by which the reader’s authority is at once complied with and reexhibited as coercive agency” (90). At one point in her reading of Moby-Dick, she does a close reading of the “tautology, ‘Ahab is for ever Ahab’” (136), in order to disclose how Ahab occupies the poles both of Manifest Destiny and of Native American doom. She writes: “the instrument of indictment, in both cases, is the very figure of selfhood, a figure that both encloses and excludes: a tautology, finally, within whose confines one always is what one is” (138). It is, of course, Melville’s tautology (not reformer Mann’s and not historian Francis Parkman’s, two other voices comprising the discursive network), which Dimock argues is “as much a social phenomenon as a literary one” (136) that allows her to make this original and illuminating claim. Our observation here is simple. Although Dimock’s point is to reveal the analogies between “textual governance” and “social governance,” between “authorial sovereignty” and “America’s national sovereignty” (7), the strength of the analysis comes, in large measure, from a necessary and at times even stated, though more often not, privileging of Melville’s words, style, and forms.
Dimock’s argument at once derives its interpretive creativity from the Foucauldian paradigm she is deploying, while it also reveals some of the theoretical pressures a literary critic might encounter when relying on said paradigm.44 The author, to quote Foucault, is a constructed entity with a variety of functions, not least of which is to serve as “a point where contradictions are resolved, where the incompatible elements can be shown to relate to one another or to cohere around a fundamental and originating contradiction.” One should observe here the theoretical kinship between deconstruction and new historicism as the “author-function” becomes the site of the deconstructive aporia. In addition, but unlike deconstruction, the “author-function” enables an evaluative move that allows readers to “speak of an individual’s ‘profundity’ or ‘creative’ power.”45 For Foucault, we must finally and fully rid ourselves of our interpretive dependence on the author because it is based on a mistaken need for “a principle of unity in writing where any unevenness of production is ascribed to changes caused by evolution, maturation, or outside influence.” Thus, at the conclusion of Michaels’s tour de force reading of Frank Norris, he writes: “the subject of naturalism … is typically unable to keep his beliefs lined up with his interests for more than two or three pages at a time, a failure that stems not from inadequate powers of concentration but from the fact that his identity as a subject consists only in the beliefs and desires made available by the naturalist logic—which is not produced by the naturalist subject but rather is the condition of his existence.”46 Similarly, “Melville’s authorial practices are,” according to Dimock, “neither strictly private nor even strictly literary, for what they adumbrate, in their controlling logic of form, is something like a controlling ‘logic of culture’” (7). These analyses accomplish the Foucauldian mandate, which demands that “the subject (and its substitutes) must be stripped of its creative role and analysed as a complex and variable function of discourse.”47
If literature is one discourse among many, without any exceptional status, and if the author is a function of those discourses, without the pedigree of creativity, it would seem that the category of the aesthetic has been fatally wounded. But that is not exactly true. What has been wounded, and deservedly so, is a particular definition of the aesthetic that links it to a notion of textual or authorial transcendence, not, in other words, a wholesale dismissal of the notion of the aesthetic itself. Thus, even in a work of literary criticism like Claudia Tate’s Domestic Allegories of Political Desire, which defines itself as “read[ing] these novels [by African American women] against the cultural history of the epoch of their production,” she is simultaneously committed to “recovering the[ir] aesthetic value.” Tate understands that value as the novels’ “ability to gratify a distinct audience of ambitious black Americans who sought to live fully, despite their commonly experienced racial oppression.”48 Gratification is a term that also appears in Janice A. Radway’s Reading the Romance (96), wherein she records the following observation made by one of the women who is talking about the threat men feel when the women around them read romances: it “has little to do with the kinds of books their wives are reading and more to do with the simple fact of the activity itself and its capacity to absorb the participants’ entire attention” (91).
It might seem odd to use Radway’s account of reading the romance as evidence for the claim that aesthetics has never fully left the critical vocabulary of American literary criticism. Not only does she focus on a genre (popular romance novels) that perhaps more than any other has been dismissed on aesthetic grounds, but she also eschews a reading about “the meaning of romances” to offer a reading of “the meaning of romance reading as an activity and a social event” (7). She is writing about books that are, for all intents and purposes, duplicates of one another, stylistically and narratively repetitive. That said, however, she, like Tate, discovers a value in their “ability to gratify,” or, as Radway puts it, “the reading experience is valued for the way it makes the reader feel … a general sense of emotional well-being and visceral contentment” (70). Moreover, Radway, whose introduction describes a process whereby she realizes the book she is writing is not about “romances as texts” (7), nevertheless ends up with a meditation on the romance and the “narrative technique[s] employed” (205) that create the powerful experience of reading the romance. It is through the “peculiar blend of a deliberately referential language with the signs of ‘the literary’” (192) that the reader is transfixed. Radway’s use of quotation marks to cordon off “the literary” should not go unnoticed (she does the same thing a page earlier), because it gets at a theoretical difficulty. Radway’s method and subject matter are driven by the imperatives of a “culturally oriented scholarship” (3) that works to undo the very cordoning off implicit in that extra set of quotation marks. If the literary really is a manifestation of the social, if popular culture really is literary, why reinforce that separation with a doubling of quotation marks? Is it because the literary is somehow (and this is where the essays in this volume come in) in a different relation to the social, a distinctive relation of the aesthetic to the social that is designated by punctuation if not always by prose?
Like Dimock, Radway’s culturally driven analysis is informed by the language of the literary, perhaps nowhere more so than in its final chapter, “Language and Narrative Discourse,” a title inspired, perhaps, by structuralist Gerard Genette, though he is not directly referenced, and it turns out that not just any reading experience produces “the feeling of pleasure” (93); rather, it is specific to how “a literary text can be said to operate on the reader” (188). With this formulation about textual “operation[s],” we are back to Tompkins’s notion of a text’s “cultural work.” She writes in her introduction that she “was trying to understand what gave these novels traction in their original setting (i.e., what made them popular, not what made them ‘art’)” (xv). For Radway, part of the effectiveness of the popular romance’s cultural work lay in its usage of literary forms. The romances represent the world here and elsewhere, now and some other time. That is the power and complexity of their artistry. For Tompkins, “non-fictional discourse, when set side by side with contemporary fiction, can be seen to construct the real world in the image of a set of ideals and beliefs in exactly the same way that novels and stories do” (xv). This striking formulation produced a series of readings that, as Tompkins writes in her final chapter, is a “competing attempt [contra Matthiessen] to constitute American literature” (200). She succeeded in reconfiguring the canon.49 Uncle Tom’s Cabin and The Wide, Wide World are required reading for scholars of American literature, not because of their “escape from the formulaic and derivative” but because they “[tap] into a storehouse of commonly held assumptions, reproducing what is already there in a typical and familiar form” (xvi).
But, if these texts are “typical” and “familiar,” why read these particular texts and not other typical ones? Why read novels if one can get the same “cultural information” (xvi) from religious tracts? Going back to Foucault, why constitute the discursive network of American sentimentalism through The Wide, Wide World and not one of the hundreds of other sentimental novels written at the time? Is it perhaps because this novel is more typical or more capaciously referential than those others? Does it do a better job, as it were, of “tap[ping] into that storehouse” and might that have something to do with their aesthetic properties? Tompkins is profoundly aware of these questions and attempts to answer them in her final chapter, aptly named, “But is it any good?” Her position is that this question is the wrong one to ask because the term good already assumes that everyone knows what is good, and that is precisely what Tompkins is disputing. We agree with Tompkins that the notion of “good” is historically grounded and not universal or transcendent (code words, as we have seen, for the aesthetic). But we think that Tompkins overstates the case, though not necessarily so at the time of writing the book. We do not think that nonfictional discourses construct “the real world in the image of a set of ideals and beliefs in exactly the same way that novels and stories do.” Rather, we think of works of art in the way Adorno formulates it in Aesthetic Theory: “works of art are after-images or replicas of empirical life, inasmuch as they proffer to the latter what in the outside world is being denied them. … Whereas the line separating art from real life should not be fudged, least of all by glorifying the artist, it must be kept in mind that works of art are alive, have a life sui generis. Their life is more than just an outward fate.”50 Rather than Tompkins’s “image,” we see art as an “after-image.” “Exactly the same way” is too limiting because it takes off the interpretive table an entire vocabulary—the vocabulary of the aesthetic—that we might use, once again, in understanding literature.
The Volume
The essays in the present volume are organized into four thematic clusters, followed by an afterword. The essays in part 1, “Aesthetics and the Politics of Freedom,” examine aesthetic theory, iconography, form, and public performance in relation to the question of freedom. That relation is essential to an understanding of the eighteenth-century poetry of Phillis Wheatley, the nineteenth-century prose of Harriet Beecher Stowe and Frank J. Webb, the turn-of-the-century poetry of Stephen Crane, and the multiple artistic genres of twenty-first century artist Sekou Sundiata. However, the essays analyze aesthetics from within their historical contexts in order to explain the specific political frameworks and debates that animate the text’s aesthetic dimensions. Edward Cahill establishes the dialectic of freedom and constraint that is constitutive of theories of the aesthetic and political analyses of liberty. He then demonstrates how Wheatley embodies this dialectic in her identity as poet and slave as well as in the poetry itself, which is located “within the contested socio-political context of eighteenth-century race slavery without ever becoming reducible to that context.” The aesthetic liberty Cahill describes in his essay becomes radicalized in Ivy G. Wilson’s account of the “revolutionary aesthetic” he sees at work in the iconographic deployments of writers as diverse as Washington Irving and Ralph Ellison. In this essay, American literature is surveyed for its strategic placement of iconic imagery, particularly George Washington and Toussaint L’Ouverture, in order to illustrate a radical privacy—a space of “innervision … that counteracted [African Americans’] depictions in the public imaginary.” American literary texts thus enfold within themselves a space for a revolutionary, iconographic aesthetic, one that allows African Americans to see or imagine, in a way that language does not always permit, “themselves as part of the U.S. or, conversely, to fantasize about alternative socialities.”
Max Cavitch takes up the question of aesthetics and politics through the lens of Stephen Crane’s poetry, and explains how the formal experimentation of free verse has been incorrectly tied to “liberal-progressive accounts of expressivity.” In fact, this essay argues that the function of the refrain, and Crane’s relentless repetitions that constitute his refrains, are themselves a critique of the position, from within the very structure of free verse, that freedom of form equals freedom of politics. The modernism of Crane’s poems thus leads not to a “revolutionary aesthetic” but rather indexes “a paroxysm of the antiaesthetic,” which is based not on freedom but convention, not on innervision but its vacuity, not on alternatives but repetition. The last essay in part 1 returns to an analysis of the liberatory politics of the aesthetic. Julie Ellison analyzes the proliferation of institutional spaces that are devoted to the production, through various art forms, of “lyric citizenship,” and contextualizes this development in relation to the present moment of Barack Obama’s presidency. Through a reading of Sundiata’s 51st (dream) state, as well as texts written primarily by African American academics, creative writers, and public intellectuals, Ellison argues for the renewed presence of an aesthetic dimension in discourse—whether through the language of dreams, magic, or lyric—that represents “political possibility and impossibility, a swinging door between agency and loss.” The aesthetic dimension is where hope is alive.
The essays in part 2, “Aesthetics and Sexuality,” argue that the embodied pleasures of aesthetic imagining provide the crucial conceptual ground for a redefinition of sociality (see Wilson, Ellison, Bentley, Hale, and Ngai for related claims). The particularities of that redefinition, and the form they take, vary depending upon the historical context in which the text is being produced and read. Judith Butler’s deconstructive work on gender, and specifically the radical potentiality she sees in the aesthetic realm, is essential to all these essays as they examine how literature can transform structures of intimacy, sexuality, desire, and beauty. Christopher Castiglia focuses on Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Marble Faun in order to delineate how the novel’s dense network of friendship becomes a vehicle for Hawthorne to imagine a romanticism that “enhance[s] the possibilities for inventive intimacies.” By drawing the connections between Hawthorne’s biography (the love letters between him and his “ideal reader,” Herman Melville), Schiller’s concept of aesthetic as “something akin to the Ideal,” and the novel’s idealization of the aesthetic in the chapter “An Aesthetic Company,” Castiglia unfolds the means by which “the transformative play of aesthetic imagination opens up a space of negotiative and compensatory intimacy.” Like Castigilia’s, Dorri Beam’s essay on Henry James’s “A Figure in the Carpet” and Constance Fenimore Woolson’s “Miss Grief” is also about intimacy; but the intimacy generated, the “Aesthetic Company” that is kept, takes place less within the pages of each individual story and more across the texts, through characters, and in form. Beam’s reading establishes the centrality of gender performance in “Miss Grief” and the parodic confusions those performances entail, which “breed more capacious forms of social and sexual intercourse and more capacious forms of reading.” The aesthetic dimension permits Woolson the freedom to write and to parody the conventional sexual and textual relations expected of “the master” toward a potential disciple (the plot of Woolson’s story). The two writers are able to forge an intertextual relation with each other that eventuates in an acknowledgment of Woolson’s literary value, a recognition that “brings one into relation with the possibilities that unfold.” Christopher Looby’s essay is concerned with analyzing a set of literary texts from the early twentieth century (late teens to the early thirties) that meditate on a historical transformation that disarticulated erotics from aesthetics. Medical, legal, psychological, and scientific discourses, as we know from Foucault, redefined “various kinds of allied pleasures” as “sexual pathology.” Aesthetics, for writers as diverse as Charles Warren Stoddard and H.D., permit a kind of recuperation (both textual and sexual) of uncategorized desire and possibility that “returns us to unmediated sensory pleasure of an elusive kind.” As Looby reminds us, at the definitional heart of “aesthetics” is the notion of sense perception, and once that notion of sense perception is restored to our understanding of aesthetics, it makes perfect sense to ask the provocative question that motivates his reading: “what if sexuality is essentially an aesthetic phenomenon?”
The final essay by Wendy Steiner returns us, like Looby’s, to an older tradition of aesthetics, one inextricably linked to ideas about beauty. Yet, like the essays by Castiglia and Beam, Steiner is interested in thinking about an aesthetic category—such as beauty—as the ground of relation, as the source of sociality. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short story, “The Birthmark,” is emblematic of the killing effects of the quest for perfection, which is then traced through twentieth-century texts, such as Christopher Bram’s Father of Frankenstein, the writings of Harvard ethicist Michael J. Sandel, and ending with the film musical Hairspray. To think of “beauty as an interaction” is to understand that interaction as ethical or unethical. “The Birthmark” represents the latter, Hairspray the former inasmuch as it makes the case not for gender unmoored from the constraints of convention (although that certainly applies to some characters), but rather for a democratizing ethics of imperfection.
The essays by Cindy Weinstein, Trish Loughran, Jonathan Freedman and Elisa New—grouped here in part 3, “Aesthetics and the Reading of Form”—all construe the aesthetic as a matter chiefly of literary form. What each of them means by form, however, proves to be somewhat different. Weinstein and Loughran both provide intricate analyses of the ways in which two of the most difficult and enigmatic of antebellum American texts, Poe’s The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym (1837–38) and Melville’s Benito Cereno (1855), manipulate narrative form and thus powerfully affect readerly reception in ways that deeply complicate, if they do not utterly confound, critical attempts to extract a stable political meaning from the text. Without a scrupulous accounting of these formal complexities, Weinstein and Loughran argue, any attempt to discover the political implications of the narratives will be fatally compromised. Weinstein outlines the many ways in which indications of temporality (verb tense, adverbs like after and at length, adjectives like immediate and still, etc.) are inscrutably woven into Pym’s “narrative fabric” and shows how that narrative fabric is thus so elaborately overwrought as to be finally indecipherable. This “aesthetics of temporality,” as she calls it, creating the effect of a “dissolution of time,” is counterposed to the many ways in which, in Pym, spatial location (and its affiliated social categories of primitive and advanced as well as racial categories of black and white) is rendered stable and knowable. Drawing on the work of anthropologist Johannes Fabian, who has demonstrated that cultural categories of racial alterity depend upon assignments of temporal relation (one people being construed as more primitive or more advanced, for instance, than another), Weinstein further argues that in Poe’s tale the “instability of time” stands in an unsettled relationship to the relative stability of racial categories, although eventually this suspension dissipates as “the relativity of time is replaced by the reliability of racial terror.” The goal of Weinstein’s analysis is not “to save Poe from his politics (or repudiate him because of them)” but to bear witness to the simultaneity (so to speak) within Pym of a racial logic we might find objectionable and an aesthetics of temporality that “undercuts that logic by dismantling the temporal pillar upon which” that racial logic stands.
In Loughran’s astute rereading of Benito Cereno, the narrative manipulation of time likewise presents a powerful challenge to assured political judgment. She explicates the details of how Melville ingeniously exploits the possibilities of narrative art—first implicating the reader of this tricky narrative in a “disposable” (initial, deluded) reading, then entailing upon him a “durable” (second, disillusioned) reading. Loughran describes this double manipulation of the reader not in the interest of making political judgments impossible, but rather to caution against the critical tendency, all too familiar, to recruit a text like this for “presentist” purposes. Loughran’s critique of facile presentism is not offered merely as a defense of “the historicist turn we have just lived through in the last twenty years or so in American literary studies,” because in fact she wishes to credit Melville with the intention, and the artistic skill, to address an ideal reader who transcends, in some degree, historical locatedness and limitation. Benito Cereno is famous for the narrative trick it plays, rendering its readers the dupes (along with the duped captain who narrates it) of a character, Babo, who is craftily pretending to be a submissive slave when in fact he is a successful mutineer, a revolutionary. The truth about Babo is eventually revealed—to Captain Delano and, perforce, to us—so that a second reading of the story will always be a knowing rather than an innocent one. Acknowledging Melville’s powerful conscription of the reader of Benito Cereno into a position of critical reflection on his own historical situatedness requires, as Loughran shows, scrupulously understanding how the tale formally dramatizes the structure of “aesthetic reception.”
Like Loughran, Jonathan Freedman is interested in the epistemological drama in his text, Henry James’s late novel The Golden Bowl. Freedman’s scrupulous exfoliation of James’s emplotment of the calculating interactions between a small set of players in a game of intimate strategic manipulation, and his explication of the asymmetries of knowledge among them, the complexities of motive and interest within them individually, and the various degrees and vectors of disinterestedness characterizing their actions, all lead Freedman to credit James with a prescient critique of the rational actor or game theory model of economic thinking that has held sway over the field of economics through the course of the twentieth century. It is as if James were writing for a readership to come (as Melville, in Loughran’s account, was anticipating a future reader), a readership attentive enough to the enigmatic intricacies of human social interaction—an intricacy representable in artful narrative but not reducible, finally, to any abstract or diagrammatic model—to appreciate his anticipatory critique of the limits of game theory. The Golden Bowl, Freedman writes, “points to the possibilities of viewing the aesthetic and the literary as conceived of under the sign of the aesthetic (as autotelic, self-referential, ‘difficult’), as providing a form of critical knowledge that may well prove to be useful not only to our attempts to understand the social at large but also in our attempts to reckon with the kinds of knowledge made available by the equally autotelic, self-referential and ‘difficult’ discipline of economics.” Freedman has James exploring the aesthetic dimension within the diegesis of the novel—the human remainder in social relations that is not reducible to mathematical modeling or abstract analysis—as well as producing in its attentive readers an aesthetic education of sorts. The anachronism sustained by Freedman’s argument—James providing us with a trenchantly dramatized critique of the limits of an economic theory that postdated his own writing career—finds justification in the fact that James was simultaneously a writer who granted to literary art an almost unlimited degree of autonomy and a practicing professional writer deeply and unembarassedly aware of the financial exigencies of his uncertain existence as a producer of an artistic commodity for a competitive marketplace.
Elisa New’s exquisite attention to the material details of Susan Howe’s poetry may remind us uncannily of the (very different) analysis of materiality provided by Trish Loughran’s essay. Loughran, as part of her formalist attention to Benito Cereno, parses very delicately the material circumstances of Melville’s tale’s initial publication in three parts, issued over three months, in Putnam’s magazine. New finds that the material details of Howe’s books (cover art, typography, illustrations, etc.) all signify richly and together make a claim for “poetry’s coextensive relation with matter.” What counts as materiality here is various and encompassing: it includes not only the physical details of a poem’s embodiment in print but poetry’s social existence as “a production, a profession, an institution”; the conditions under which a poet makes the poem (desk, chair, light; on sabbatical in a cabin or in the hushed reading rooms of a great university library) and the conditions under which a reader encounters it later (in a library, in bed, at a public reading).
Conventionally, a poem’s “transcendence of print, paper, and ink” are the assumed conditions of its immortality; “physical aspects of the poetic volume are still meant, in contemporary habits of reading, to evanesce,” New observes. The aesthetic or literary dimension, we often assume, resides exactly where the accidental material form of a text is left behind. But Howe’s poetic practice turns these ingrained assumptions on their head, insisting instead on “physical density and sensate clamor,” refusing to disown or transcend its embodiment. It routinely thematizes its existence as “print, paper, and ink,” as well as its rich enmeshment in academic and other institutions as well as literary and intellectual inheritances. To highlight merely one thread in a complex weave of argument and appreciation, New finds that Howe’s poem Pierce-Arrow has the foundational American pragmatist philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce “at its center.” The poem is actually made, in part, from words of Peirce’s, quoted words that themselves reflect (as pragmatism does) upon the philosophical mistake of divorcing ideas from their practical purposes, their material effects. Howe’s acknowledged debt to Peirce is matched by her explicitly recognized debts to poetic forebears like Jonathan Edwards and Wallace Stevens, both of whom “had the kind of intimate physical relationship with the poetic word that Howe cherishes.” Like Weinstein, Loughran, and Freedman, New finds that formalist reading and aesthetic appreciation are, contrary to long-established habits and ideologies, fundamentally circumstanced and located, materialized and embodied, situated and conditioned.
Part 4, the final section of essays in this volume, appears under the heading “Aesthetics and the Question of Theory” and includes contributions from Nancy Bentley, Dorothy J. Hale, Mary Esteve, Eric Lott, and Sianne Ngai. It will be seen immediately that these essays do not dwell, by and large, in the realm of theory as such, but are exercises in practical criticism that nevertheless draw conspicuously and explicitly on certain theoretical resources—Jacques Rancière’s idea that aesthetics is the ground of politics (in Bentley’s case), various contemporary theories of the novel as well as the “ethical turn” in recent criticism (Hale), questions of aesthetic and ethical value as they were articulated by various mid-twentieth-century American commentators (Esteve), Frankfurt school cultural theory (Lott), and Bruno Latour’s social network theory (Ngai). This is an eclectic set of theoretical references, to be sure, but they have in common a desire to connect the aesthetic dimension explicitly to the social and political world, and in that sense they return us in a fashion to the pre-Kantian aesthetic attitudes with which Ed Cahill’s essay opened this volume, to the fundamental assumption that aesthetics is always already worldly, embedded in the realm of history, society, and politics.
Whatever value there might be in provisionally suspending our ingrained will to historicize and politicize literature and art—in order to distinguish the aesthetic dimension and thereby bring it more certainly into focus in its at least partial autonomy—none of these contributors wishes, in the end, to separate these matters decisively. Nancy Bentley, in “Warped Conjunctions: Jacques Rancière and African American Twoness,” invokes the work of Rancière on the way that sensory experience serves as the space of political existence and uses his arguments to diagnose our current critical situation in American literary and cultural studies, a situation of exhaustion with prevailing modes of ideology critique (we have become, Bentley, suggests, “disenchanted with disenchantment”). But arguments such as Rancière’s need to be “illuminated and tested through examples from African American art,” a body or tradition of expression that has always been politically invested but has often been equally invested in formal experimentation and extravagance. Bentley works from the inventive formal features of some recent paintings by Kehinde Wiley—the way they violate and reconfigure certain spatial and ornamental conventions of Western representational painting—to show how, by dint of “a kind of displacement or spatial syncopation in the field of rational geometrical space,” they contest certain universalizing norms that have been historically associated with (and instrumental in perpetuating) racial hierarchies. Her analysis of Wiley’s visual art provides her, then, with tools to bring to bear upon some earlier African American literary works, namely, an early and never completed experimental narrative by W. E. B. Du Bois, as well as Of One Blood by Pauline Hopkins and several other fictions by Sutton Griggs and James Corrothers, all of which feature a kind of “aesthetic warping” for which Wiley’s paintings provide a retrospective model.
Bentley observes that Rancière attributed to the nineteenth-century novel a new power to “break up and reconfigure” existing normative distributions of sensory entitlement (who gets to go where, who gets to see what, who gets to speak, etc.). Dorothy J. Hale’s essay, “Aesthetics and the New Ethics: Theorizing the Novel in the Twenty-first Century,” relocates the consideration of novelistic form: she addresses the curious but underexamined conjunction between the “return to ethics” in contemporary literary theory (especially the theory of the novel) and the frequent adversion to novels and novel reading in a good deal of contemporary moral philosophy. Moral philosophers like Martha Nussbaum, for example, find in the novel a special set of ethical virtues, involving the enlargement of our sympathies and the widening of our range of experience; from the literary-critical side, the new ethical criticism finds itself celebrating the aesthetic form of the novel for its capacity to induce readers to realize both their social embeddedness (the limits on their subjective freedom) and, by virtue of that realization, the “subjective potentiality” that is not completely limited by social and material reality. Hale finds that these approaches share common ground in their “ethics of alterity,” and she notes that Henry James enjoys a particular contested status at this crossroads between moral philosophy’s embrace of the novel and ethical criticism’s celebration of the moral value of novelistic form, since each of them finds in James a novelistic practitioner whose art they wish to defend from previous critics who either celebrated him (naively) as a high priest of freedom and consciousness or decried him (crudely) as the great avatar of falsely universalizing bourgeois subjectivity, rather than recognizing in him and in his characters a complex reckoning with “our constitutive sociality.”
Mary Esteve examines the fiction of Philip Roth and finds within it a nuanced account of “the relation between aesthetic value or quality and that paradigmatic postwar American feeling, happiness.” The theory she brings to bear involves not a critical lens deployed instrumentally to make Roth’s work visible in a certain way but a range of social commentators and sociological analysts from the middle of the twentieth century (Howard Mumford Jones, C. Wright Mills, David Riesman, Lionel Trilling, Melvin Tumin, William Whyte) who collectively turned their attention to the question of post–World War II American society and its vaunted pursuit of happiness. They, like Roth, found this pursuit to be in large measure vulgar and materialistic, shallow and self-centered, and they sought to identify means of enabling authentic affective experience to flourish and superior aesthetic encounters to take place. Esteve’s account culminates in an interpretation of the engagement in Goodbye, Columbus between a young librarian who finds a way to make the library, as a particular institutional piece of a social structure, serve the affective and aesthetic needs of a black boy for whom a book of arts prints is an indescribably valuable inspiration.
The array of aesthetic objects that circulate through Roth’s work (Utrillo prints tacked to apartment walls, tasteful Swedish modern furniture, Norman Rockwell images, the middlebrow orchestral music of Mantovani) and the difficulty in assigning aesthetic value to them may prepare us for Eric Lott’s concerted attempt to bring to bear one of the most severely unforgiving instruments of twentieth-century aesthetic judgment (the critique of culture-industry commodification articulated by Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno) upon one of the most snobbishly reviled bodies of American popular music, the “Caucasian blues” of Richard and Karen Carpenter. Lott is the author of a prescient 1994 essay titled “The Aesthetic Ante: Pleasure, Pop Culture, and the Middle Passage,” in which he argued for the necessity of scrupulous aesthetic analysis of mass-cultural artifacts that might otherwise seem ready-made for ideology critique.51 Lott finds that, in the sonic forms of their music, the Carpenters “‘produced the concept’ (à la Althusser) of turn-of-the-seventies Southern California unfreedom” and that, while Adorno might have mounted them as exhibit A in a display of ignoble aesthetic artifacts, they in fact encode, in the very textures of their songs, a powerful negation of the “spurious harmony” they might at a first glance seem to embody.
Sianne Ngai’s essay on the poet Juliana Spahr’s recent (2007) novel The Transformation asks us to think, along with Spahr, about the aesthetics of social formation.52 What kinds of images or diagrams do we carry around in our heads of the many webs of social relationships in which we find ourselves? In the contemporary period where we are arguably in something called a “network society,” a reticulated structure that is in principle resistant to closure, how do we represent that structure to ourselves? This is a practical question, since our behavior within that structure may be largely determined by the picture of it we possess; but it is also an aesthetic question, a matter of appearance and judgment, of the value we place on one kind of organizational matrix versus another. Ngai stages a complex encounter between Spahr’s novel, which features a protagonist (“they”) who are a triune unit enmeshed in a variety of social and natural networks, and the “actor-network theory” of modern society elaborated by Bruno Latour in Reassembling the Social.
A word must be said about the afterword, by Charles Altieri, commissioned for this volume. Astute readers will discover that it is in some ways an unusual afterword, taking (as it does) a skeptical and even contentious approach to the other contributions rather than politely reviewing and synthesizing them as afterwords more often do. We welcome Altieri’s demurrals and challenges and hope that, as he is given the final word, the volume as a whole might open up serious debate and lead to further discussion. It might indeed be a useful exercise to reread any of this volume’s essays in the light of Altieri’s reservations—he holds that these essays by and large deal with materials for which “the aesthetic is not in fact central,” mostly because (he claims) works whose fundamental medium is language are not what aesthetic philosophy was created to understand—and he proposes that they could well have made their claims without adverting to the aesthetic at all. Instead of the language of the aesthetic, Altieri proposes that we talk in terms of “imaginative labor to build worlds out of linguistic resources.” The essays collected here, Altieri insists, may attend to specific aesthetic properties of particular works of art, but, always with an eye to the social or political utility of those properties; they “build predicates for social use into the very definition of ‘aesthetic’ from the start.” We are reminded here of a comment made to us by a late colleague, Jay Fliegelman, who at one point was meant to take part in this undertaking, before ill health prevented his participation, and who cautioned against subjecting aesthetic pleasure to a political litmus test. As literary and cultural studies was beginning to turn its attention back toward aesthetic questions, Fliegelman observed, aesthetics seemed everywhere to be put on notice that it nevertheless had to serve progressive political and social purposes, and this a priori criterion was itself damaging to the integrity of aesthetic experience. In our email exchanges with Fliegelman we quoted Marcuse’s assertion that “the political potential of art lies only in its aesthetic dimension,” here used as this introduction’s epigraph, but Fliegelman objected: “The notion of aesthetics as a staging ground for a future political move still subordinates aesthetics to politics, and implies that aesthetic issues are most important as a site of political potentiality.”53
We welcomed Fliegelman’s contentious resistance then as we welcome Altieri’s now. They help point up a fact about academic work in literary and cultural studies—indeed, in the humanities generally—in recent decades: it has become common sense to many of us to agree, with Fredric Jameson, that politics is “the absolute horizon of all reading and all interpretation” (17), that “there is nothing that is not social and historical—indeed, that everything is ‘in the last analysis’ political” (20). Readers of this collection will see that its overall aim is certainly not to substitute the aesthetic as the “absolute horizon” of interpretation, nor does it insist that “the last analysis” ought to be an aesthetic one. Rather, its purpose is to join in an effort to place aesthetics back on the critical agenda—and not in a fixed subordinate position either, but in a dynamic and unpredictable relationship to the social and political and ideological matters that have dominated our conversations for a good while now. The aesthetic is itself social and historical; it exists within the political horizon of interpretation and often has a powerful role in reshaping that horizon. But the political has its own irreducible aesthetic dimension as well, one that ought not to be characterized pejoratively in all cases and may even constitute an essential element of its capacity to support and extend human flourishing and freedom. Roland Barthes wrote in Mythologies that “a little Formalism turns one away from History, but … a lot brings one back to it.”54 May we imagine that a candid reckoning with aesthetics would not merely bring us back (predictably) to history and politics, but that the various dimensions of art and life will be understood in the complexity of their dynamic interanimating relationship to one another?
Notes
1. On “organic form,” see F. O. Matthiessen, American Renaissance: Art and Expression in the Age of Emerson and Whitman (New York: Oxford University Press, 1941); on “romance,” see Richard Chase, The American Novel and Its Tradition (New York: Doubleday, 1957); on “colloquial style” see Richard Bridgman, The Colloquial Style in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1966).
2. Sacvan Bercovitch and Myra Jehlen, eds., Ideology and Classic American Literature (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986).
3. It should be noted that Poirier was describing what he took to be a recurrent impulse within the texture of American literary style to distance itself from economic, political, and social systems, an impulse he characterized explicitly as an illusion, myth, or fantasy. See Richard Poirier, A World Elsewhere: The Place of Style in American Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1966).
4. Jane Tompkins, Sensational Designs: The Cultural Work of American Fiction, 1790–1860 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), xv. Further page references will be given in the text.
5. Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1981), 9. It would be difficult to underestimate the influence of Jameson’s claim for “the political perspective … as the absolute horizon of all reading and all interpretation” (17).
6. Our title alludes, of course, to Herbert Marcuse, The Aesthetic Dimension: Toward a Critique of Marxist Aesthetics (Boston: Beacon, 1978). Although Marcuse’s account takes the value of political revolution as fundamental, he also grants a necessary autonomy to art: “the political potential of art lies only in its own aesthetic dimension,” he writes (xii). The aesthetic, according to Marcuse, references something more fundamental than politics, which he calls “humanity as such” (24) or, to list some of his other foundational terms, human nature, eros, life, subjectivity or inwardness, freedom, happiness, and other basic human qualities or needs that are, so to speak, presocial—and, he claims, embodied in or addressed by the sensuous form of art rather than by its expressed political content.
7. Elizabeth P. Peabody, “Introduction.—The Word ‘Aesthetic,’” Aesthetic Papers (repr. New York: AMS, 1967), 1. Our understanding of Peabody’s strategically flexible use of the term aesthetic, as a means of teaching the healthy cultivation of uncertainty and even confusion, owes a great deal to Alison Hills, “Practical Confusion: Aesthetic Perception in Antebellum American Writing,” Ph.D. diss., UCLA, 2009.
8. For a beguiling discussion of the varieties of meanings ordinarily attached to the category of the aesthetic, see Leonard Koren, Which “Aesthetics” Do You Mean? Ten Definitions (Point Reyes, CA: Imperfect Publishing, 2010). Koren’s list includes appearance, style, taste, philosophy of art, thesis or exegesis, artistic, beauty, beautification, cognitive mode, and language.
9. Rita Felski, Uses of Literature (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 4.
10. Paul Ricoeur, Freud and Philosophy: An Essay on Interpretation, trans. Denis Savage (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1970), passim.
11. Scientia cognitionis sensitivae: quoted in David E. Cooper, ed., A Companion to Aesthetics (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1992), 40. Scientiam sensitive quid cognoscendi: quoted in Paul Guyer, Values of Beauty: Historical Essays in Aesthetics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 3.
12. Susan Buck-Morss, “Aesthetics and Anaesthetics: Walter Benjamin’s Artwork Essay Reconsidered,” October 62 (Autumn 1992): 6. The embedded Terry Eagleton quotation is from The Ideology of the Aesthetic (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), 13.
13. Ekbert Faas, The Genealogy of Aesthetics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 1. Richard Shusterman, Pragmatist Aesthetics: Living Beauty, Rethinking Art, 2d ed. (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2000), 263.
14. It is curious that, even among scholars who are once again entertaining the possibility of examining the aesthetic dimension of art and experience, but without abandoning the materialist and historicist approaches that have proven so productive in recent critical history, there has been so little reference made to American pragmatism, which might very well provide valuable theoretical resources for a rematerialized aesthetic criticism. Even at a quick glance, Dewey’s Art as Experience, for instance, which aggressively reconnects the experience of something designated as an art object with “the human conditions under which it was brought into being and … the human consequences it engenders in actual life-experience,” would seem to provide a promising model for current explorations. John Dewey, Art as Experience, ed. Jo Ann Boydston and Harriet Furst Simon, intro. Abraham Kaplan, in John Dewey: The Later Works, 1925–1953 (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1987), 10:9. Among the few Americanist critics to derive explicit guidance from pragmatism has been Richard Poirier in such works as The Renewal of Literature: Emersonian Reflections (New York: Random House, 1987) and Poetry and Pragmatism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993).
15. See Bruno Latour, “Why Has Critique Run Out of Steam? From Matters of Fact to Matters of Concern,” Critical Inquiry 30 (2004): 225–48.
16. Sacvan Bercovitch, The Puritan Origins of the American Self (Yale University Press, 1975), 186. A 2011 reissue of this book, with a reflective new preface by Bercovitch, has been published by Yale University Press. See also Bercovitch, “The Problem of Ideology in American Literary History,” Critical Inquiry 12 (1986): 631–53.
17. Russ Castronovo, for example, cites it as such in his entry on “Aesthetics” in Bruce Burgett and Glenn Hendler, eds., Keywords for American Cultural Studies (New York: New York University Press, 2007), 11–12.
18. Sacvan Bercovitch, ed., The American Puritan Imagination: Essays in Revaluation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974). The lead essay in the collection was Norman Grabo’s “The Veiled Vision: The Role of Aesthetics in Early American Intellectual History.”
19. Sacvan Bercovitch, “Games of Chess: A Model of Literary and Cultural Studies,” in Robert Newman, ed., Centuries’ Ends, Narrative Means (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 15. Bercovitch’s terms here, opposing “aesthetic” or “literary” to “cognitive” analysis, draw upon a deep discursive history, dating from Baumgarten’s attempt to distinguish sensory apprehension or perception (the proper realm of aesthetics, he claimed) from cognitive or conceptual analysis (the realm of logic, science, ideas). Thus Hegel wrote that “the beauty of art presents itself to sense, to feeling, to perception, to imagination; its sphere is not that of thought, and the apprehension of its activity and its productions demand another organ than that of the scientific intelligence.” G. W. F. Hegel, Introductory Lectures on Aesthetics, ed. Michael Inwood, trans. Bernard Bosanquet (New York: Penguin, 1993), 7.
20. Sacvan Bercovitch, “The Function of the Literary in a Time of Cultural Studies,” in John Carlos Rowe, ed., “Culture” and the Problem of the Disciplines (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 69.
21. Sacvan Bercovitch, The Office of The Scarlet Letter (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991).
22. Christopher Castiglia and Russ Castronovo, eds., “Aesthetics and the End(s) of Cultural Studies,” American Literature 76, no. 3 (2004); Emory Elliott, Louis Freitas Caton, and Jeffrey Rhyne, eds., Aesthetics in a Multicultural Age (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002); Michael Berubé, ed., The Aesthetics of Cultural Studies (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005); Sharon Marcus and Stephen Best, eds., Representations 108 (Fall 2009). To this selective accounting we might add Pamela R. Matthews and David McWhirter, eds., Aesthetic Subjects (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003), and John J. Joughin and Simon Malpas, eds., The New Aestheticism (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003).
23. Sharon Best and Stephen Marcus, “Surface Reading: An Introduction,” Representations 108 (Fall 2009): 13.
24. Contrast this to Jameson’s insistence that “the traditional issues of philosophical aesthetics: the nature and function of art, the specificity of poetic language and of the aesthetic experience, the theory of the beautiful, and so forth … themselves need to be radically historicized” (The Political Unconscious, 11).
25. Richard H. Brodhead, Cultures of Letters: Scenes of Reading and Writing in Nineteenth-Century America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 11.
26. Louis Althusser, “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses,” in Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays (New York: Monthly Review Press, 2001).
27. For several recent examples of American literary criticism that take up the question of aesthetics, see Castiglia and Castronovo, “Aesthetics and the End(s) of Cultural Studies”; Russ Castronovo, Beautiful Democracy: Aesthetics and Anarchy in a Global Era (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007); Bill Brown, A Sense of Things: The Object Matter of American Literature (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003); Paul Gilmore, Aesthetic Materialism: Electricity and American Romanticism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009); and Theo Davis, Formalism, Literature, and the Making of American Literature in the Nineteenth Century (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007). See also Samuel Otter and Geoffrey Sanborn, eds., Melville and Aesthetics (London: Palgrave, 2011).
28. For a reconsideration of new historicism from the perspective of two of its original practitioners, see Catherine Gallagher and Stephen Greenblatt’s Practicing New Historicism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000). They write: “no matter how thoroughgoing our skepticism, we have never given up or turned our backs on the deep gratification that draws us in the first place to the study of literature and art. Our project has never been about diminishing or belittling the power of artistic representations, even those with the most problematic entailments, but we never believe that our appreciation of this power necessitates either ignoring the cultural matrix out of which the representations emerge or uncritically endorsing the fantasies that the representations articulate” (9).
29. John Carlos Rowe, Literary Culture and U.S. Imperialism: From the Revolution to World War II (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 16. Further page references will be given parenthetically in the text. A critique of “undecidability” or “indeterminacy” is often a coded way of distinguishing one’s own work from deconstruction. Also see Jonathan Arac’s seminal essay on Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, where he points to the curious fact that “in some current criticism, ‘indeterminacy’ functions as a closure” (249). Arac, “The Politics of The Scarlet Letter,” in Bercovitch and Jehlen, Ideology and Classic American Literature, 247–66.
30. Janice A. Radway, Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991), 7. Further page references will be given parenthetically in the text.
31. Donald E. Pease, Visionary Compacts: American Renaissance Writings in Cultural Context (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987), 256. Further page references will be given parenthetically in the text.
32. Also see Oxford University Press’s Women Writers in English, which republished, among other texts, Catharine Williams’s Fall River: An Authentic Narrative and Judith Sargent Murray’s Selected Writings, as well as Rutgers University Press’s American Women Writer series, which republished Maria Cummins’s The Lamplighter, E. D. E. N. Southworth’s The Hidden Hand, Constance Fenimore Woolson’s short stories, and many other once-forgotten texts.
33. Cathy N. Davidson, Revolution and the Word: The Rise of the Novel in America, expanded ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 359. Further page references will be given in the text. One often underappreciated feature of Davidson’s book is that it presents a comprehensive account of the early American novel, encompassing male writers and canonical figures along with the female authors to whom it helped draw new attention.
34. Wlad Godzich, “Introduction: Caution! Reader at Work!,” in Paul de Man, Blindness and Insight: Essays in the Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism, 2d ed. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1983), xxviii.
35. Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), 35.
36. Geoffrey H. Hartman, Saving the Text: Literature, Derrida, Philosophy (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981), 121.
37. Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (New York: Vintage, 1970), 49.
38. Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, trans. A. M. Sheridan Smith (New York: Pantheon, 1972), 25–26, 32, 30.
39. Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 3–30.
40. Christopher Norris, Deconstruction: Theory and Practice (New York: Routledge, 1986), 48.
41. Gillian Brown, Domestic Individualism: Imagining Self in Nineteenth-Century America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 8, 9–10, 7, 1, 9. Also see Gregory S. Jay’s America the Scrivener: Deconstruction and the Subject of Literary History (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1990), in which he positions himself vis-à-vis Derrida: “where my argument arrives is at the dissemination of the position of the subject rather than at its disappearance” (x). Poe has been a favorite of deconstructive readings, including Jacques Lacan’s famous analysis of “The Purloined Letter.” Here is Renza on Poe’s “The Oval Portrait”: “Such repetitive de-compositions of, first, the woman by the artist, next the portrait by the volume, then this volume by the tale’s very narrative, and finally this narrative by the interpretive narrative able to recognize how such verbal circularity figuratively doubles an ‘oval portrait,’ obviously suggest an endlessly provisional sequence or en abîme of misreading.” Louis A. Renza, “Poe’s Secret Autobiography,” in Walter Benn Michaels and Donald E. Pease, eds., The American Renaissance Reconsidered (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), 69. On binaries Gillian Brown writes, “I therefore make no attempt to distinguish between classic and feminist or revisionary American literary canons. I have chosen texts that may or may not fit these categories (in some cases previously unread materials) for their various expositions of the problematic of domestic individualism” (7). See Mark Seltzer, Bodies and Machines (New York: Routledge, 1992) for a deconstruction of the person/machine paradigm; Michael Warner, The Letters of the Republic: Publication and the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-Century America (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992) on the public/private; and Eric J. Sundquist, To Wake the Nations: Race in the Making of American Literature (Cambridge: Belknap, 1998) on the black/white.
42. Walter Benn Michaels, The Gold Standard and the Logic of Naturalism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 27, 18, 27.
43. Wai-chee Dimock, Empire for Liberty: Melville and the Poetics of Individualism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 10. Further page references will be given parenthetically in the text.
44. Single-author texts are especially vulnerable to this potential inconsistency. Such texts automatically grant a kind of privilege to that author, if only to the extent that his or her work most fully encapsulates the paradoxes of a culture. The discursive network, in other words, is built around the author, not quite the other way around. In addition to Dimock, see T. Walter Herbert, Dearest Beloved: The Hawthornes and the Making of the Middle-Class Family (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), and Michael Paul Rogin, Subversive Genealogy: The Politics and Art of Herman Melville (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985).
45. Michel Foucault, “What Is an Author?” in Language, Counter-memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews, ed. Donald F. Bouchard (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1977), 128, 127.
46. Michaels, The Gold Standard, 177.
47. Foucault, “What Is an Author?” 138.
48. Claudia Tate, Domestic Allegories of Political Desire: The Black Heroine’s Text at the Turn of the Century (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 5, 7, 7.
49. Along with Philip Fisher’s reading of Uncle Tom’s Cabin in Hard Facts: Setting and Form in the American Novel (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), chapter 2; Eric Sundquist’s edited collection, New Essays on Uncle Tom’s Cabin (New York: University of Cambridge Press, 1987); and Elizabeth Ammons’s Norton Critical Edition of Uncle Tom’s Cabin (New York: W. W. Norton, 1994).
50. Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, ed. Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tidermann, trans. C. Lenhardt (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984), 6.
51. Eric Lott, “The Aesthetic Ante: Pleasure, Pop Culture, and the Middle Passage,” Callaloo 17, no. 2 (1994): 545–55.
52. Elsewhere Ngai has written acutely of the minimal quotient of aesthetic evaluation retained in one of the most ordinary and affectless of phrases in our critical idiom, the judgment that something is “interesting.” Sianne Ngai, “Merely Interesting,” Critical Inquiry 34, no. 4 (Summer 2008): 777–817.
53. Jay Fliegelman, personal communication.
54. Roland Barthes, Mythologies, trans. Annette Lavers (New York: Hill and Wang, 1972), 112.