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Introduction
Club Work
The lover of books is a disgruntled beast. If it's not Horace shaking a fist at multiplying poets in Ancient Rome, it's Dr. Johnson groaning under the weight of superfluous Authors in eighteenth-century London; if it's not Goethe denouncing book reviewers in nineteenth-century Weimar, it's Randall Jarrell lacing into supercilious critics in twentieth-century New York. For every season there is a time under heaven for complaining: "[I]n the degree that we have come to take literature with an unprecedented, a religious, seriousness, we seem to have lost our pleasure in reading. More and more young people undertake the professional study of literature; fewer like to read." A pretty fair description of the current state of literature studies in the academy, wouldn't you say? If you did, you'd be wrong. The words appeared in a 1952 review of Edmund Wilson's The Shores of Light, and the reviewer, Lionel Trilling, seemed put out that reading, "which used to be an appetite and a passion, is now thought to be rather infra dig in people of intelligence." There is something else out of place about these sentences: they appeared in the publication of a book club whose stated purpose was the dissemination of the very books that Trilling despaired of ever being savored.
In 1951, Trilling, Jacques Barzun, and W. H. Auden had been enlisted by Trilling's former student at Columbia, Gilman Kraft, to form the editorial board of a fledgling publishing venture to be named the Readers' Subscription Book Club. Their duties would entail choosing books and writing monthly columns for the club's bulletin, The Griffin. Why would someone who believed that readers were becoming insensible to the pleasures of literature take on such work? For one thing, Trilling probably believed it less than he made out; for another, he knew that however small the audience for books, it needed looking after. His bolder, more prescient point concerns the relation between the professional study of literature and the love of reading. Shortly after the founding editors departed from the book club in 1963 (by which time it had been reincorporated as the Mid-Century Book Society), the deconstructionist gale blew in from across the Atlantic, upsetting the historic balance between readers and texts, between literature and criticism--thereby casting the book-club essays by Auden, Barzun, and Trilling as some of the last examples of literary criticism aimed at a general audience by professional critics. Indeed, the fact that two professors in the humanities and a poet famous for his learning once deigned to head such a club speaks volumes, as it were, about the difference in the literary culture then and now.
One such difference, more felt than acknowledged, has been the almost complete bifurcation of literary criticism into the academic and the journalistic styles. Until the early 1960s, literary prose was roughly divisible, as Cyril Connolly suggested, into the Mandarin and the Vernacular. The former rejoiced in complex sentences that took their sweet time to get to the point (the point may well have been the eloquent unfurling of one dependent clause after another), while the latter depended on familiar speech patterns and the brisk rhythms of journalism. Unalike in sensibility and syntax, the two styles nonetheless shared an unwavering belief in the transparency of the written word. This faith in language, however, would soon be tested by continental philosophers and semioticians, who concluded that the problematic nature of mind and language required a style of discourse emblematic of this difficulty. Instead of borrowing from -- and contributing to -- the language of literature, academic critics began to generate an alternative parlance that, for want of a better word, became known as the Theoretical -- a style whose tortured syntax and profusion of technical terms purportedly mirrors the socio-psychological conundrums that underpin cognition. An implicit tenet of the new style was that everything written in the old style was somehow innocent of its own deeper implications. This, in turn, had the unintended effect of placing an intellectual barricade in front of any new lettristic movement, and so the progression of Classic-Augustan-Romantic-Victorian-Modern came to a standstill with Postmodernism, which has little to do with literature and everything to do with rapidly changing theoretical models: structuralism, deconstruction, reader-response theory, New Historicism, post-colonialism, culture studies, gender studies, queer studies.
How all this will play out in the university is anyone's guess. One thing, though, seems self-evident: the Theoretical style showcases by default the organic relationship that once existed between literature and criticism. Whereas the Theoretical essay was never meant to be taken for a category of literature, the lettristic is an extension of the literary experience -- is, in fact, in the right hands, a species of literature. One has only to think of Samuel Johnson, Haz-litt, De Quincey, Stevenson, Arnold, Ruskin, Orwell, and Henry James of the Prefaces. The literary essay, or more accurately the essay about literature, reached its highest elevation during the second quarter of the last century, with the prestige conferred on it by T. S. Eliot, whose own efforts were models (certain of his opinions notwithstanding) of clarity, discernment, learning, and persuasiveness. With Eliot, the critical essay not only fed on the work of poets, it enhanced it, providing an exegetical frame to set off the poem's colors and shadings. And modern literature, because it was complex and disturbing, because it openly equated form with function, brought forth critics intent on measuring the tension between the cultural implications of rhetoric and the autonomy intrinsic to unique works. Twenty years after the publication of The Waste Land, we had reached, as Randall Jarrell famously said, "The Age of Criticism," an age that relied on literature's preeminence in order to emerge.
An age of criticism naturally serves up critics unhappy with the age, and Jarrell's designation wasn't meant as an honorific. Criticism, he pointed out, "which began by humbly and anomalously existing for the work of art, and was in part a mere by-product of philosophy and rhetoric, has by now become, for a good many people, almost what the work of art exists for: the animals come up to Adam and Eve and are named -- the end crowns the work." Jarrell was being disingenuous; criticism was never so humble, and he knew it. His anxiety preceded the age; and it was only after his death that his cautionary remarks bore fruit. In fact, it was the Age of Criticism because most critics would not have bothered to state that literature was more important than how they spoke about it: "Books were our weather, our environment, our clothing," Anatole Broyard recalled about his days in Greenwich Village in the 1950s. "We didn't simply read books; we became them. We took them into ourselves and made them into our histories." The only thing that mattered was the life of the mind, and everything important to that life -- God, sex, politics -- had to pass through the centrifuge of literature.
All this is to say that the literary critic labors under a burden that critics of the other arts do not. Unlike those who write about music, painting, or architecture, the literary critic relies on the same instrument used by the poet and novelist. No one asks that the critic's prose be equal to the writer's, only that it display a passionate advocacy of -- or considered opposition to -- the poem or novel's own heightened language. Passion can be mute, inarticulate, eloquent -- it can even be polemical -- but it cannot be jargon-ridden or willfully obscure. Awkward, even clichéd prose is forgivable, but to come to literature with the theorist's pride in complexity and obscurantism is like encountering a slightly demented lover who lavishes all his time and effort on a letter rather than on the person the letter is intended for.
Is there a right way to write about books? Edwin Denby, the dance critic at mid-century for the Herald Tribune, perhaps came close when he stipulated: "It is not the critic's historic function to have the right opinions but to have interesting ones." What Denby meant by this is something more than might first suggest itself. "Interesting" is not a terribly interesting word; it is, however, a deceptively transparent one. To tweak a phrase, serious is easy, interesting is hard. But in the absence of a universal template, how does one go about being interesting? In a 1955 talk, slyly titled "On Not Talking," Trilling pronounced that the "most discouraging element in American cultural life was "a lack of innocence and ready human respect, a fear of being wrong, an aspiration to expertise." (Isn't this the genome of the postmodernist?) Trilling, who was perhaps our most sophisticated reader of novels, sensed that knowledge itself is subject to hesitancies and uncertainties, and that perhaps literature is ground too fine to be poured into any one theoretical, or porous, vessel. What Trilling was getting at was a definition of sophistication that did not preclude openness on the part of the critic. Let the critic stumble, reverse himself, question his own motives -- why not? Isn't a critic surprised by his own response to literature preferable to one who thinks he has all the answers? We may want a critic whose reading has been seasoned by experience, and whose experience is better informed for having read seriously, but we also want that critic to invigorate us, to clear the mind of unruly shrubbery, to broaden our perspective, not by being right, but by getting close enough to make us intuitively think about what is right.
It was a hill, really, that Montaigne lived on and drew his name from: it is only the Essays that are mountainous.
As a man grows older it is likely that the new books to which he forms a permanent attachment are reference books.
The House of the Dead is not Dostoevsky's greatest work but it is, perhaps, his least irritating.
For years I resisted every recommendation to read her. Her name conjured up for me the conventional anglo-saxon images of Paris as the city of the Naughty Spree...
One of my college teachers said that the day comes to all men when they no longer delight in reading novels.
There is probably no literary career in America today that matches James Baldwin's in the degree of interest it commands. The reason for this is as deplorable as it is obvious.
Thus begin some of the reviews and essays that Auden, Barzun, and Trilling contributed to The Griffin and The Mid-Century. In the post-Derridean classroom, one might argue that these particular writers, through no fault of their own, read books with a certain culturally inbred naiveté, insufficiently aware of an author's cultural assumptions or the tie-in between semiotic and social structures. Of course, this is somewhat like condemning all those who died before the coming of Christ for never getting the chance to accept Him. However inadequate as social scientists and semioticians the editors might have been, their own work displays that informal expertise that is second nature to the habitué of books. The innocence embraced by Trilling is an innocence predicated on the expectation that the primary purpose of literature (and criticism) is the communication of artistic vision, without which "obscurity," as Auden once put it, "is mostly swank." None of the editors would have claimed, as does a recent advertisement for the London Review of Books, that the club was "unashamedly intellectual." The book club was not only not unashamed, it was clearly in the Arnoldian mold of bringing intellectual news to all those who were, as Arnold observed, "interested in the advance of the general culture." Its legitimacy was fact because it remained unstated.
Which is not to say that the editors were absolutely convinced that such a club would work. It may have been the Age of Criticism, but it was also the end of the age (naming always foreshadows endings), and though "literary" and "intellectual" were still spoken of in the same breath, what guarantee that a club offering good books and only good books would find an audience? Braiding the commercial with the intellectual has never exactly been a sure-fire way of getting to the top of the publishing heap. Still, if you're going to throw the dice -- the fuzzy literary kind -- better to do it when men and women of letters are actually standing around the table. In 1950, Edmund Wilson presided over the book section at The New Yorker; Lincoln Kirstein was the Fine Arts editor of the New Republic; and Malcolm Cowley was a contributing editor of the Nation. That year the Partisan Review had ten thousand subscribers, and, as Auden had dryly observed: "Our intellectual marines / Landing in little magazines / Capture a trend." To be sure, a few marines such as William Empson and Kenneth Burke were beyond the pale of the nonspecialist reader, but that still left Desmond McCarthy, Alfred Kazin, Leslie Fiedler, Mary McCarthy, Cyril Connolly, Randall Jarrell, and George Orwell (who died in 1950) as well as critics of a more pronounced academic stripe -- F. O. Matthiessen, Frederick Dupee, Allen Tate, R. P. Blackmur, Cleanth Brooks, M. H. Abrams, W. Jackson Bate, and Harry Levin -- all of whom wrote for places the general educated reader could visit without a graduate school visa.
But were there enough such interested travelers? Who made up this pool of potential customers who could be enticed by Santayana's Letters or the epistolary humdingers that flew between Richard Strauss and Hugo von Hofmannsthal? Not a fan of letters? Well, the club could ship you David Riesman's The Lonely Crowd, the Selected Writings of Sydney Smith, Caesare Pavese's Diaries, Hannah Arendt's The Human Condition, or a spanking new biography of the young Sam Johnson. The secret word was "eclecticism": E. M. Forster's memoir of his great aunt, the latest translation of Molière's Misanthrope, George Sansom's History of Japan, the Oxford History of English Literature. All for you, all at special savings. Of course, the book club was offering more than books at reduced rates, it was granting access to highly respected critics. To put it indelicately, Barzun, Auden, and Trilling were trading in -- literally banking on -- their reputations. Trilling was already the author of a classic study of Matthew Arnold and had just published The Liberal Imagination; Barzun had six books under his belt, including Berlioz and the Romantic Century; and Auden, too, had a sizable body of work behind him, including The Age of Anxiety and Nones. Discerning readers joined the Readers' Subscription for the same reason they shopped at the neighborhood butcher instead of the supermarket. The butcher chose and cut his own meats and offered only the marbled and most tender. You not only trusted his expertise, you felt he was looking out for you.
By the time the Readers' Subscription reemerged as the Mid-Century Book Society, in 1959, the literary climate was beginning to change. As more and more books tumbled into view, and as publicity mills began pumping up the volume, the Mid-Century was put into a bind. It needed subscribers, but it didn't want to carry those nominally serious works that Dwight Macdonald dubbed "Midcult," whose proliferation, Macdonald warned, would lead to an irrevocable muddling of highbrow and middlebrow. He needn't have worried. High culture would soon relocate lock, stock, and barrels of books to the university, leaving the public arena to Midcult and later PopCult (whose significance, oddly enough, would require the erudition of these same self-exiled highbrows). But without benefit of focus groups, polling methods, and questionnaires, the editors could only speculate about the audience -- how few, how fit?
In statements prompted by the incorporation of the Mid-Century Book Society, the editors attempted to identify the people they were writing for. Barzun spoke of readers who might appreciate the very books that the editors would choose for themselves; Trilling spoke of those who "stand at the middle level of taste" and mentioned giving his dentist a copy of Norman O. Brown's Life Against Death. Auden was both more direct and more dreamy. Unlike his two confreres, he acknowledged the less-than-intellectual nature of the exercise; it was marketing strategy pure and simple. Their real rivals, Auden speculated, were not the Book-of-the-Month Club and the Literary Guild but paperback series such as Anchor Books and Penguins, which traded in intellectual wares. Our goal, he wrote, is "to turn our members not into high-brows, but into intellectual dandies." The highbrow, apparently, belongs to a cell of intellectuals (the cell "may be only a Little Social Beast, but a Social Beast it is"), whereas the intellectual dandy is unique and opposed to cells of all kinds. This leads to a problem: How are you going to appeal to the person who would never dream of joining a book club in the first place? It's about the advertising, stupid, Auden declaimed -- or words to that effect -- and since advertising "is based on the proposition that unique persons do not exist, only social beings with socially conditioned and predictable desires," the only way of promoting the club, he counseled the front office, is: "Be modest. Keep your voice low. Remember that you are selling books, not authors. Be brief. Be ABSOLUTELY HONEST. NEVER EXAGGERATE. Be witty if you can, but remember that nothing is more awful than a bad joke." What was he thinking? This isn't practical advice for advertisers, although it makes good sense when reviewing books.
During the eleven years that they wrote for the book clubs, Auden, Barzun, and Trilling turned in some 173 reviews and essays, covering novels, poetry, letters, anthologies, histories, and biographies, as well as books on natural history, music, theater, the arts, society, and civilization. Some are patently book reviews; others, full-length essays; a small number began life as introductions to books; others as homages to authors alive or dead. There are solemn and not so solemn essays; essays of an Olympian judiciousness and others of a casualness that almost borders on whimsy. In the main, they were occasional pieces, which meant that the editors' loftier concerns -- Auden's religiosity, Trilling's Freudianism, Barzun's Pragmatism -- were reined in. But they were also pieces occasioned simply by enthusiasm for a particular book or author; and given the editors' cosmopolitan backgrounds, neither the books nor the reviews reflect a peculiarly American sensibility: French, German, and English authors are touted as regularly as American ones.
Each of the editors naturally had his own field of expertise -- "domain" might be the better word -- yet any one of them could have stepped in for another and, in a manner of speaking, often did. If Barzun got the nod to write about Virginia Woolf's Diaries for The Griffin (July 1954), Auden might turn around and review it for The New Yorker, which he did (March 1954). The great thing was that they'd been handed a bully pulpit to write about what interested them and even, on occasion, what they had an interest in. Barzun's translation of Beaumarchais's Marriage of Figaro is praised by Auden, while Trilling pushes the Poems of Cavafy, which is published with an introduction by Auden. But at least this vested interest was out in the open; subscribers could take a recommendation or leave it. The point of the book club remained one of trust: if the book was good enough for the editors, it was good enough for the subscribers.
This trust was confirmed monthly by the clubs' publications, which in size, format, and number of pages were more like the little magazines of the day than the standard blurblike communiqués from other book clubs. Aside from one or two reviews by the editors, one might find an article by Mark Van Doren, E. M. Forster, Saul Bellow, or Richard Poirier. In one issue of The Griffin, Elia Kazan reminisced about directing A Streetcar Named Desire (1951, vol. 2, no. 6); in another, Trilling's "The Early Edmund Wilson" (1952, vol. 1, no. 9) is followed by Wilson's own piece, fetchingly titled "A Modest Self-Tribute." On occasion, the unwary subscriber could stumble across a passage from Baudelaire's letters, an excerpt from Nietzsche's reflections on Schopenhauer, or a sketch by Leslie Stephens.
But it was Auden, Barzun, and Trilling the subscribers paid to read, a fact not lost on the trio. While the reviews and considerations they generated could be as short as a thousand words, the usual entry was around thirty-five hundred words, sometimes as many as five thousand. Moreover, they shared the work, often reading the same books and blue-penciling one another's drafts. Each had a hand in what the others wrote, but not so you'd notice more than one set of fingerprints. Auden's contributions, understandably, are the least academic in spirit; Trilling's, the more serious and reflective (except on those occasions when they're not), and Barzun's are at once plainspoken and rich in detail. A hasty generalization derived from their respective styles: Auden delights in the world and occasionally finds himself annoyed by the world in which books play a large part; Trilling is delighted or annoyed by books in which the world plays a large part; and Barzun, enamored of order but wary of systemization, seems the most comfortable in the world and in his own skin. And all three seemed at ease doing what they were doing. The book club was their club too, where they could kick back, light up a cigarette (Auden and Trilling smoked like dragons), go through the publishers' lists or parcels of manuscripts, and divvy up the goods. Barzun gets Shaw, Proust, Montaigne, Molière; Trilling gets Bellow, Baldwin, Dickens, Nabokov; Auden gets Sydney Smith, Marianne Moore, John Betjeman, Ford Madox Ford. And we sometimes get surprises. It's not Auden who draws Kenneth Tynan's Curtains, but Trilling; not Trilling who wades into the Faulknerian underbrush, but Auden.
No less than his uptown accomplices, Auden had a pedagogical streak, though he pretended otherwise: "Criticism should be casual conversation," he remarked when it was suggested that he oversee a volume of his collected prose. He also liked to play down his reviewing assignments. His review of Muriel Spark's three novels begins: "It is all too easy for a reviewer to confuse his job with that of the literary critic. A reviewer must remember that his audience has not read the book which he is discussing; a critic starts with the assumption that his audience is fairly familiar with the work or author he is reexamining." No doubt this is so, but it is also more than just a matter of switching hats. Book reviewers come and go, and most of them depart without causing us undue distress. But every so often one appears who makes us want to read more of his own work than the book under review. Auden may have slighted his criticism publicly, but he took it seriously. James Fenton goes so far to say that "in Auden's work, prose and poetry interpenetrate to a far greater extent than in the work of any other English-language poet of this century." Auden may have written prose for lucre and poetry for love, but, as Auden's executor Edward Mendelson shrewdly observes, Auden was a poet who dramatized the tension between public responsibility and private desire, whose poems speak in "the voice of a citizen who knows the obligations of his citizenship." Could his other -- his prose -- voice do less?
This may be the place to say that of the three editors, it is Trilling who, at times, seems the least characteristic. His vaunted prose style, commonly described by his detractors as baroque, complex, and opaque, is less in evidence here than in his other essays. Although not everyone finds his mature style troublesome, it is tough to reconcile the Trilling of the book clubs with the Trilling of the Partisan Review, a distinction he himself made in the preface to A Gathering of Fugitives, which captured (among others) a dozen of his book-club pieces. Because the clubs' subscribers amounted to what was essentially a captive audience, Trilling could say that he was led "to write less formally than I usually do, and more personally, even autobiographically....Writing frequently and regularly for the same audience relaxes the manner of address," he wrote a tad formally. And while his penchant for going into things could not always be stifled by the quick turnaround required by monthly reviewing (witness his pieces on Lawrence Durrell's Alexandria Quartet and Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March), there are also some fine examples of Trilling Light (see "Practical Cats More Practical Than Ever Before").
Mark Krupnick makes much of this division in Lionel Trilling and the Fate of Cultural Criticism, characterizing him as both avant-garde intellectual, "alienated, agonized, intransigently adversary in temper," and book-club editor, "relaxed, comfortable, at ease in the world." But why the dissection? Trilling was as much a teacher of literature as a writer, and as much a writer of literature as a critic; and all three personas took on the work of the book clubs. In an eloquent memoir, written a year after Trilling's death in 1975, Barzun drew a connection between the book club's genesis and Trilling's intellectual makeup. When Trilling mentioned his interest in a proposal "to disseminate good books," Barzun took it in stride. He knew the man, knew that he "was not a 'humanist' against science or social science, or a 'critic' against 'scholarship.' Nor did he look down on the general public as an undifferentiated mass of barbarians: all his remonstrances were directed in the first place at professionals who could fight back."
If Trilling's prose is complicated, it is also accessible; if he seems, on occasion, indecisive, he is persuasively so. Literature worried him; it worried at him. In essay after essay, he seems to be asking: "What is it that literature depends on for its effect?" The cultural complicity of literature, about which ideologues make such a fuss, Trilling took for granted: Because culture traps us and envelops us, because even the ways that we reject it are culturally determined, no judgment can be entirely devoid of a certain inquisitorial tension. This isn't ambivalence or uncertainty but the intuition that decisive formulations about art must be extracted from a mess of antinomies. "What is it that literature depends on for its effect?" Trilling's answer, or at least one variation of it, expressed in a characteristic dialectical trope, stresses both "the aesthetic effect of intellectual cogency" and "the primitive which is of the highest value to the literary artist." "Intellectual power and emotional power go together," he wrote in "The Meaning of a Literary Idea" -- a statement that goes a long way toward explaining why aesthetic judgments are allergic to one or another theoretical blanket.
Barzun, who began to teach with Trilling in 1934, took a different approach to the complexity which all thoughtful people sense when taking stock of their surroundings. As Barzun remembers: "Trilling was bent on developing the large consequences of the often hidden relations and implications for life that he found in literature. I was trying to compress great batches of fact and opinion into descriptions and conclusions that the reader of history could grasp....The excess on my side that Lionel reproved was, therefore, a characteristic unwillingness to 'go into it.' Some decisive formulation of mine would make him curious, raise his antennae for the complex, and he would say, 'Open it up -- that sentence deserves a paragraph...that paragraph, a page.'" But whether it is Barzun's shorter, more direct sentences, or Auden's elegantly casual prose, or Trilling's undulating elaborations, it is ultimately the high state of awareness each brought to the work that repays our investment.
Civic-minded criticism is neither moralizing sentiment nor sermonizing cant. Criticism is an aid, not an answer; and the book club, as envisioned by its board, embodied a tending-to-the-flock mentality, shepherding readers, so to speak, toward nutritious leaves of grass. In more urban terms, the editors, albeit self-appointed, were the public's proxy, investing its capital in literary markets that would pay out. They may not have always walked a fine line between high-handed and high-minded, but in writing for the general educated public they wrote as themselves, not as a committee, and certainly not in the service of any one ideological cause. Matthew Arnold would have approved. In a little-known essay, "The Bishop and the Philosopher," Arnold noted that there are some books, however specialized or scholarly, which seem to require the critic's attention, for the obvious reason that not everyone "is a theologian or a historian or a philosopher, but everyone is interested in the advance of the general culture." He may have been reaching, but even if there were only one interested party, it would be enough to justify the critic's intervention. The book Arnold had in mind was one of biblical scholarship, a subject in which he lacked the requisite academic credentials. But as he explained, "[A] work of this kind has to justify itself before another tribunal." The editors were that tribunal, and the book club was their excellent Arnoldian adventure.
In retrospect, there is something wonderfully optimistic about the whole enterprise. Maybe it's because we live in a time when literature, pinioned by criticism and overshadowed by media, makes the idea of starting such a book club so improbable that the first meeting of the Readers' Subscription begins to blend with one of those MGM movies in which Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney get the bright idea of putting on a show. This is not to suggest that the book club wasn't serious; it certainly was, but the boys were having fun, and they let you know it. They were like those classical musicians who, upon leaving work at the symphony, head downtown to play jazz all night in a smoky club. Did they go downtown on books? In a loose sense, yes -- not during every set, of course, but every so often one or another of the trio would launch into an uncharacteristic riff that signaled the pleasure they derived from playing together; and surely no small part of that enjoyment lay in the knowledge that they were performing for a literate audience who had come expressly to hear them.
Excerpted from A Company of Readers by Arthur Krystal. Copyright © 2001 by Arthur Krystal (Introduction and essay compilation). Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
