In this post, I talk about “An Essay in Criticism” by Virginia Woolf, as published in the anthology The Story About the Story.
The essay, which originally appeared in the New York Herald Tribune in 1927, is an examination of Ernest Hemingway’s short story collection Men Without Women.
There must have been a time when getting featured in the Sunday Book Review translated into instant sales sensation. A review contributor for The New York Times only has to say something smart, put in a good word or two, and make a compelling point before the final end mark, and soon people would come pouring down the stores in search of that captivating, inspiring, mesmerizing, breathtakingly brilliant book.
But these days, with less people reading in print, it’s more about online presence. With thousands of people sharing their thoughts in the blogosphere and enjoying immense worldwide readership, there simply is no faster way to give a book the widespread attention it needs in order to be a bestseller. The Internet, it seems, has given everyone a chance to be a critic.
It should be interesting then to wonder what Virginia Woolf—herself a critic, and one of irrefutable credibility—would have thought about book blogs if she had lived in our day. “Human credulity is indeed wonderful,”
she probably would’ve repeated, asserting the same sensible sarcasm expressed in her critical review of criticism.
Comparing the critic against the nobleman, she made note of why the commoner has obvious reasons for surrendering his trust to those who make our knees shake when they go sweeping by in kingly fashion. Then she added that “what reason there is for believing in critics it is impossible to say.”
About them, Woolf observed:
They differ in no way from other people if one sees them in the flesh. Yet these insignificant fellow creatures have only to shut themselves up in a room, dip a pen in the ink, and call themselves ‘we’, for the rest of us to believe that they are somehow exalted, inspired, infallible.
Interestingly, Woolf herself used “we” thirty-eight times throughout the essay, especially when speaking against critics. There are also thirteen appearances of “us.”
The fallibility of critics, she explained, lies in the excitement to come to a conclusion. If in her time Woolf had been distressed with reviews that come out just two days after the book, she might have easily considered today’s critics to be just as flawed for producing reviews “too rapidly and too definitely”—reviews that now get published even months before the book comes out. And this is something we in the blogging community surely know so well.
But of course, the trend for publishers these days is to release a book only after the galleys and review copies have been sent out several months in advance. And it wouldn’t even be a surprise to a find a book in a catalog even if its release date is still almost a year away. Talk about patience in investment. So perhaps, under these circumstances, Woolf wouldn’t be quick to call it too rapid if a blogger should exclaim “Fantastic!” and profess to have pondered about the book for a full week before writing that statement.
In reality, however, not many bloggers would want to hold out from proclaiming their fascination (or disgust) for a book right after reading it. After all, part of the charm of reading blogs is its sense of immediacy. It’s like reading a page from a diary of someone still living, and reading it while the ink’s still wet. And this intimate quality is also what gives bloggers a unique basis for credibility: a regular audience (or “followers,” as others call them).
It’s natural for a blog to expose the preferences and prejudices of its author, making it a more intimate affair between reader and reviewer. The audience is turned into an acquaintance (or, more preferably, an actual friend), and the reviewer becomes someone they know. This gives the reader the ability to ascertain if the reviewer’s taste matches his own bookish disposition, which in turn serves as a sound basis as to whether one could trust the review’s recommendation. That’s why, when we come across a new book blog, we pore through older posts and check if the blogger enjoys the same books that we do. After all, taste in books is all about preferences.
So even when a blogger writes only one line that says “I love this book,”
he might in fact be also saying “We both love snobbish English literature that drowns us in a sea of orchestral prose and lavish imagery which may very well win it the next Booker Prize, or even the Nobel if the author continues like this for the next twenty years. So buy this book.”
Nevertheless, not all readers would be able to form that unspoken bond with the reviewer. So there’s still something to learn about the art of careful criticism in Woolf’s review of Men Without Women.
Put in perspective, Woolf may have had very little reason to like Ernest Hemingway. She was a feminist, an erudite writer who experimented with different techniques and wrote a lot about the upper classes and the educated elite. She used stream-of-consciousness to open up her characters as they muse about the world in their long interior monologues. Hemingway, on the other hand, was a war veteran who exuded a macho image and romanticized themes of death and conflict. He used enigmatic dialogue to suggest meaning and convey emotion, and he kept to his signature brand of crisp, tight prose.
But Woolf never found Hemingway’s talent to be questionable. She herself described him as “brilliantly and enormously skillful” and praised the “curious force” of his writing. What she found disagreeable, however, was Hemingway’s emerging reputation as a “modern” writer. In the same review, she also examined the writer’s earlier book The Sun Also Rises and made this observation:
At any rate, Mr. Hemingway is not modern in the sense given; and it would appear from his first novel that this rumour of modernity must have sprung from his subject matter and from his treatment of it rather than from any fundamental novelty in his conception of the art of fiction.
Widely regarded as a modernist herself, Woolf believed that Hemingway’s art is nothing brand new and that a comparison with the works of earlier French masters like Mérimée and Maupassant will prove that he was merely carrying out their teachings. As it happens, Guy de Maupassant also served in war like Hemingway, and the “prevailing atmosphere” in the American’s work—which Woolf likened to “winter days when the boughs are bare against the sky”—is also visible in the Frenchman’s writing. A quick search of Maupassant’s works should lead to several short stories like “A Duel”, which opens with these lines:
The war was over. The Germans occupied France. The whole country was pulsating like a conquered wrestler beneath the knee of his victorious opponent.
If a critic should say that such gripping economy of language is intrinsic to those who’ve been to battle, one might easily agree with it. It’s something that can also be observed with the combat-tested novelists of today like James Salter, Tim O’Brien and—most recently—that writer-turned-Marine in HBO’s latest miniseries The Pacific. It’s as if the experience of violence and peril has taught these men to be forceful and brief. After all, war can take one’s life at any moment. And while the warrior waits, all he can do is contemplate.
But Woolf wasn’t just talking about prose style. She stressed that Hemingway was not “advanced” and that his vision was a “tolerably familiar sight.” For her to describe this way the leading voice of the “Lost Generation” should come off as no surprise. In a much more daring rebuke to James Joyce, she referred to the Irishman’s novel Ulysses (which, coincidentally, is another modernist masterpiece) as “the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.”
Woolf, it appears, was a rather sharp critic.
Hemingway’s enthusiastic reviewers were compelled to use words like “modern” and “advanced” but Woolf’s examination made her think otherwise. “The first thing that the mind desires is some foothold of fact,”
she said, which sounds like a very reasonable advice for the critics of today. When we feel the urge to exclaim “Fantastic!” then, it might be wise to take a short step back and first reflect about how and why we really find it to be so.
Near the end of her essay, Woolf went on to criticize what she felt to be the faults of Hemingway’s stories. For example, she complained about his “tendency to flood the page with unnecessary dialogue and the lack of sharp, unmistakable points by which we can take hold of the story.” While it’s surely tempting to debate upon these points and explain why “Hills Like White Elephants”—excessive in dialogue as it may be—is a powerful example of Hemingway’s subtle brilliance, it would be wise to leave that for another discussion and finally put this lengthy discourse to a close.
Here then is Woolf’s final assessment of Hemingway:
Mr. Hemingway, then, is courageous; he is candid; he is highly skilled; he plants words precisely where he wishes; he has moments of bare and nervous beauty; he is modern in manner but not in vision; he is self-consciously virile; his talent has contracted rather than expanded; compared with his novel his stories are a little dry and sterile. So we sum him up. So we reveal some of the prejudices, the instincts and the fallacies out of which what it pleases us to call criticism is made.
The Story About the Story
Tin House Books (2009)
A full excerpt of “An Essay in Criticism” is available at the Tin House Blog.
This is a fascinating post, and very timely since I just reviewed a Hemingway biography today! The Story About the Story will be added to my wishlist immediately.
Thanks JoAnn! What’s the title of that biography you read?
It’s called Ernest Hemingway: A Writer’s Life by Catherine Reef. Although aimed at middle-high schoolers, it provided just the background I was looking for before beginning A Moveable Feast.
Great kick-off to your Notes on Craft series. Mark David!
I’ve read Woolf on the subject of criticism, and I think you’re right to point out that the power dynamics of the single, all-powerful Newspaper Reviewer, those titans of the press she mentions, has radically changed in modern times — so much so that (as much as I love Woolf, as you know), I think some of her concerns don’t really apply to today’s world. As you say, much of the charm of blogging lies in the immediacy she decries, and some of her objections — that it’s irresponsible of someone wielding such power over a book’s fate to pronounce on it a few days after reading it for the first time — don’t apply so much when the power being wielded is much less, and spread out among more people. On the other hand, I always enjoy the breath of fresh air that comes when someone blogs about a re-read of a book with which they have an ongoing relationship, because of course our understanding and appreciation do deepen over time.
Woolf’s points do bring up interesting questions about the old “are book bloggers reviewers?” question; I don’t really think of what I write as “reviews,” but more as chronicles of my own reading process. But does that excuse me from paying careful attention to the issues Woolf raises? I’m sure everyone would have a different opinion.
I love her phrase “moments of bare and nervous beauty.” That’s what I love about Hemingway, too.
@JoAnn: Thanks, I might want to look into that
@Emily: Oh yes, that certainly describes it well doesn’t it, “nervous beauty”
I think I feel it well in his dialogues when the two characters talk as if always trying to avoid answering the other. And in those one or two lines of narration that cut in the middle of dialogues just to drop a quick glimpse at the surroundings, apparently mundane yet somehow a weight is left even as the conversation continues... I’ve only read Hemingways short stories. Next month Claire and I are planning to read The Sun Also Rises.
That’s a good point about book blogs. I agree that what we do are more like reading journals. And that’s why the “personal touch” thing works for us right? The experience we give to readers is an intimate and not a detached one. And what’s interesting about Woolf’s take on Hemingway is that it itself is a personal essay. You can feel Woolf is affected by what she’s talking about, and even if we may not agree with everything she says, it’s still refreshing to read.
With newspaper reviewers, the authority comes from the newspaper’s name itself. Although if you think about it, the newspaper can’t have a single unified voice, because different contributors would have different sensibilities. Chances are, each time you open that page, the one who talks to you is someone you haven’t heard of (and probably never will again). So what you look for is a kind of exalted insight. But then, of course, this is also the charm of newspaper reviews. That feeling that what you’ll read there would be agreed upon by many. A kind of validation, perhaps, especially if it’s a book you’ve also read... And I must admit, I also love reading the Sunday Book Review
Intriguing, thought-provoking post. My own thoughts are clumsy at the present (and I’ve visited this post a few times now, trying to decide what to say); all I can offer is a compliment for the fine nature of this article, Mark David.
Oh that’s alright Suko. It happens to me a lot actually. A lot! But I appreciate you stopping by
I need to read that essay again. But Woolf is quite right, methinks, to admit that in summing up another’s work, the critic reveals her own “prejudices, instincts, and fallacies.” Thank you for this most interesting, thought-demanding post.
Thanks ds! And it’s interesting that Woolf herself revealed her prejudices while examining Hemingway’s short stories, which she was considerably correct in describing as disproportioned because of the lengthy dialogues. But it’s still a matter of taste, right? Because other writers must feel that disproportioned as they may be, they still work. I’m not sure, but it feels to me like she deliberately wrote the essay that way so her point would could be well observed.
In any case, that’s why book blogging works, right? Because each one has a personal touch. We tend to love bloggers for their prejudices
Did you actually count how many times she used ‘we’ and ‘us’ in the essay? (I’m sorry I can only ask such a trifly question hehee
)
Haha! I knew someone would be curious about that (and I should’ve guessed it’d be you).
Yes, I counted them. But with the help of the browser’s text search feature
When I read the article on the book, I noticed she also used “we” a lot and so I opened the excerpt page at the Tin House site and used text search get the number of instances 
Hi,
Thanks a lot for this thoughtful take on Woolf in The Story About the Story. I was pleased to be able to secure the rights for this one, for the book. Pound for pound, probably the most expensive piece in the book.
Something easy to overlook in the essay — at least in my opinion — is the way that Woolf is overusing these words...“we,” “us,” and maybe most importantly, “he.” It’s important to note that Woolf is pointing out that the stilted, neutered language of criticism means that when she refers to even herself in the essay, the present reviewer, she must use “he” because she can’t use “I.” This, I think, feeds into what she’s saying about Hemingway’s hyper-machismo. In other words, the same thing that is true of her criticism of Hemingway is also true of the vehicle she’s using to level that criticism.
It’s that she makes this point in such a sly way that makes this essay creative — and much more than just a review.
I hope that only adds to this kind discussion of the essay...and I hope that the interest in this piece translates to interest in the rest of the book, which is filled with essays just as good.
Best,
J.C. Hallman
Hi Mr. Hallman!
Thanks a lot for sharing more insight into Woolf’s essay. I must say, it feels a privilege to see your comment here. That is an interesting point you shared, and I agree that Woolf had been really crafty in composing that piece.
And the book is certainly filled with wonderful essays, so I thank you for editing such a colection. And thanks to Tin House for publishing such delightful anthologies. This book is a gem
Best wishes on your future works!
I should add, by the way, that this essay has made me more curious about Woolf’s nonfiction. Somehow I feel like anything she wrote would be a delightful read, and I’m sure there are many who feel the same
I definitely think the magic of book blogging is in how the blogger becomes someone you know, whose tastes you find similar to your own. So the most resonant bit for me was you imagining the ‘unspoken’ part of ‘I loved this book.’
I do enjoy reading blogs written by those who have different taste from me as well, but I’m less likely to want to read a book they loved.
By all means, I’d be thrilled if you blogged more about the book. My hope in putting it together was that people would do precisely this — read the essays, and share their thoughts about writing about reading.
To my mind — though for very unusual reasons — the Woolf essay goes with the pieces by Rushdie and Stegner, and the excerpts by De Botton and Dyer. Very, very different pieces, but all more or less taking on the institution of criticism the way Woolf does. Cynthia Ozick is sort of persnickety in the way Woolf is too...and in other places she’s expressed similar views.
I’m thrilled the book is getting the reaction here it is, and I’ll be sure to check back in and offer my thoughts from time to time.
@Eva: Oh thank you! I do that all the time actually, because I love reading the reviews of blogger friends who, over time, have proven to share my taste in literature. So each time they say they loved a book, I know exactly what to think
@J.C. Hallman: Thanks a lot! It’s a real pleasure. I’ve read only two essays so far (the other one, Proust’s take on cliches — which is wonderful) but I’ll definitely take your recommendations. Your other books look interesting too, by the way, so I’d like to post a link to your website here:
http://jchallman.com/
And I’m totally with you on “creative criticism” and will, in my own little way, try to promote it as well
Excellent! And thanks to all who chip in...
I like Woolf’s view of Hemingway’s works: “He is modern in manner but not in vision.” “His talent has contracted rather than expanded.” Perhaps he knew that too, so that at the end of his life, sadly, he took his own life.
I am enjoying your comments and criticisms, David. Wonderful insights.
Thanks Harvee! I’m enjoying the book very much. Woolf certainly has a way of sounding convincing. She’s quite an intelligent writer, isn’t she?