Confessions of a critical mind

My name is Silvija and I am a literary critic. Mostly of poetry. Yes, that sounds like a bad confession, as if I’m trying to communicate something that I’m ashamed of. It is a specific statement, though, it also means coming to terms with something you do – to appreciate this, embrace it fully. At the beginning of my ‘career’ (if you can call writing reviews in Slovenia a career; I think not) I was sceptical about this profession myself. Most people don’t really adore critics, and often think of them as lacking in literary talent (which is why they don’t write themselves, some would say), consider them as petty, vengeful and lacking in taste. Or, in the words of Northrop Frye, one of the most famous theorists of criticism:

‘This sounds as though criticism were a parasitic form of literary expression, an art based on pre-existing art, a second-hand imitation of creative power. On this theory critics are intellectuals who have a taste for art but lack both the power to produce it and the money to patronize it, and thus form a class of cultural middlemen, distributing culture to society at a profit to themselves while exploiting the artist and increasing the strain on his public. The conception of the critic as a parasite or artist manqué is still very popular, especially among artists. It is sometimes reinforced by a dubious analogy between the creative and the procreative functions, so that we hear about the “impotence” and “dryness” of the critic, of his hatred for genuinely creative people, and so on.’

This is still the general opinion, more or less, though I use the word ‘general’ quite loosely, because I should think there are still people who appreciate literary reviews. I definitely shared this popular view when I first delved into criticism, and I had my misgivings as to whether the study of comparative literature adequately equipped me to dissect literature. But through work, intensive writing and extensive reading I came to appreciate criticism, though some of my doubts remain. I no longer see it as parasitic, secondary, or inferior to the ‘original’ text, but rather as parallel writing that sets out from (inter)textual reality but goes on its own reflexive, contemplative way, developing its own style by using of different writing techniques, imitating or appropriating different genres etc. Of course, reviews are limited by their own formal constrains, definitions and specific conditions, but you can always make do within those limitations. And of course, writing a review doesn’t necessarily mean just putting your thoughts and opinions about the book on the paper: being an experienced critic requires certain knowledge and skills that develop during your ‘career’ (I can’t find a better word, I’m sorry). Your own critical judgment is constantly challenged and shaped by the texts, the opinions you express, by the different disciplines and areas of knowledge you rely on. I like to think that every review teaches you, or at least tells you, something about your relationship with literature, about your manner of writing and reflecting. And I believe your (critical) writing changes over time, and that criticism is not a rigid, boring form if you as a critic make the most of it.

Writing reviews can be really interesting, challenging and intriguing if you write and think about poetry – especially Slovenian poetry. The majority of the people who work in the field of literature in our country will probably tell you that we have a lot of poets, quality poets, at that, both men and women, who write good poetry that goes above the national standards. They will also tell you that there are a lot fewer readers of poetry than there are poets, which is a pity. Somehow, people in our land still prefer prose to everything else, accessible prose in particular. Poetry doesn’t sell, even the officials of the Ministry of Culture are advising publishing houses to leave it out of their programmes, excellent collections languish on the library shelves etc.

I often wonder why that is. Not that I lose sleep over this question, and I certainly don’t have a definitive answer to it, but it does bother me sometimes. I might be a bit biased here, because I find that reading good poetry is a fun, engaging and even hypnotic activity. I think that the general opinion is that poetry is not as accessible as prose or that you just don’t know what to do with it. I partly blame academic, professional discourse for this: we have perpetuated the belief that poetry transcends reality, that it carries a higher form of meaning, that it reaches unbelievable, untouchable heights, that it complicates, eludes meaning, muddies the water, etc. I don’t think that poetry is any more sacred or difficult or ethereal or unreadable than prose or drama. However, it has been positioned and glorified as such in the discourse on literature, whereas it merely has its own way of expression. It can carry as much or as little meaning as any other genre – if we accept that meaning is constructed and that is changes across time and space, different power systems, prevailing paradigms of knowledge, etc. The beauty of poetry, however, is that it is meant to be enjoyed word by word: there is excitement in just following the unique and special ways in which words are linked and the myriads of associations that cross your mind as you watch the words dance, and there is fascination to a poem’s rhythm or music – poetry is basically words draped in music.

As a critic I first started to write reviews of prose. But then I discovered what can be done in and with poetry, the many avenues of approach it offered. Some critics avoid it because it seems harder to talk about, but this is likely a self-imposed restriction. I know that many find poetry cryptic and difficult to access. However, I prefer writing about it precisely because of its multiplicity and multidimensionality. In poetry, language itself comes to the forefront, and you can either observe smaller chunks in isolation, or you can look at the wider context; a single line can trigger a chain of thoughts, associations and images in your mind, and so can the collection as a whole.

And perhaps there’s something about the shared marginal status of poetry and criticism in the here and now that I find appealing. Why do I think that poetry and criticism go well together? They are discourses on the fringes of a larger literary science, and in their obscurity they should go well together. I don’t mean that they should unconditionally go hand in hand, the dynamics here are much more complicated. I simply mean that they both currently work from the fringes of public interest. Not that I believe that criticism should slavishly promote any genre of literature, or that it should be its faithful agent. I don’t think criticism should answer to the author whose work it reviews, or that it should help them get ahead. I’m thinking more in the sense that it should spread different points of view and encourage different readers to think about the written word. It is all about building and stirring up the present discourse, and shaping its possible variations in the future. It is important for the institution of literature itself, for its development and preservation, that books of all kinds be constantly and consistently discussed, considered from multiple perspectives and reinterpreted. Criticism, one could say, is never a finished process, and that is its advantage.

But poetry in our country is in a unique position. I believe it is unjustly overlooked and marginalised for reasons I’ve listed above. This is especially true if we’re talking about works which are doubly marginalised – works by women, immigrants, LGBTQ+ community, etc., though I also think even those works are getting some deserved recognition nowadays. By analysing poetry and writing about it in a professional manner, we can bring more attention to it. By that I don’t mean that all reviews should be positive or that the critic should be in awe of every book. What I do mean is that it’s a good thing to talk about a marginalised literary form and open poetic works to public debate. Criticism should contextualise poetry, connect it with other disciplines, humanities and social sciences. Poetry can cross boundaries, disseminate meaning, generate new meanings with every new reading or contextualisation. It has no fixed narrative, it can traverse rigid norms of literature, language and society. Which sometimes could also be said for criticism, or at least for Deleuze’s notion of criticism that fundamentally reimagines traditional approaches, pivoting from a focus on judgment to an exploration of creativity and transformation. Rather than viewing criticism as a means to measure and judge against fixed standards, Deleuze sees it as a process that disrupts and reconfigures existing structures. So both poetry and criticism can explore, criticise and reshape language and reality, which is why I think they still go well together, in a sense.[1]

To focus more sharply on poetry, I think larger debates on poetry criticism are welcome. I learnt that first hand, participating as a critic for two consecutive years in Festival Pranger which brings together experienced critics and poets for a broader and deeper discussion. Preparations took time, debates were long and exhaustive, and in the end, everybody left with broadened knowledge of poetry. Such festivals are good for poets because they expose them to a live audience and to critical thought in the making. They see how their poetry comes alive and how it’s received, how (if) it moves people who read it. As for critics, they get further education on how to deal with, read and evaluate texts, even ones they may be less comfortable with. The ways to write about poetry are many, and it’s excellent that there is a plurality of voices and approaches to evaluation and analysis. There is never one, definitive truth or judgment about a work of art, it is always opened to discussion, and I wish we had more critics who deal with poetry (it really isn’t that hard, I swear). I wish we had more platforms for reviews and in-depth analyses of poetry and literature in general, because this sphere is shrinking which is a topic for another essay. For now I can only say I will continue to write about poetry, to fight for the its visibility, and I hope this endeavour will teach me something new every time.

[1] I think Julia Kristeva could help us the better to understand the unique nature of poetry, and we could perhaps apply her insights to criticism as well. Here is a relevant quote from Revolution in Poetic language: ‘If, therefore, any representation or language were the equivalent of this practice, it would be the representation and language of ‘art’; it is only in their performance that the dynamic of drive charges bursts, pierces, deforms, reforms, and transforms the boundaries the subject and society set for themselves. To understand this practice we must therefore break through the sign, dissolve it, and analyse it in a semanalysis, tearing the veil of representation to find the material signifying process.’