IGNOU Solved Assignment: MEG-05: Literary Criticism & Theory

l. Write short notes on the following: 

a. Hamaftial Tragic Failing

Ans:

According to Aristotle, the tragic hero is impeded by a distinguishable characteristic or character trait which leads to his ultimate demise. This trait is known as hamartia, or the "tragic flaw." This characteristic is said to not only lead to the hero's demise but may also enable the reader to sympathize with the character. So it follows that in Oedipus the King, a Greek tragedy, the tragic hero Oedipus should have some sort of flaw. However, after close examination of the text, no distinguishable "flaw" is revealed. Although Oedipus appears to have many "flaws" on the surface, namely his poor temperament, carelessness, curiosity and pride, close examination of the text reveals that he has many seemingly flawed characteristics that are not only justifiable but in some cases to be expected.

One might expect that a quick and even murderous temper would be considered a serious impediment to Oedipus. However, he is quite justified in his rage against Creon and Tiresias, and he has good reasons to suspect them of plotting against him. From the view point of Oedipus, he has just discovered that the antecedent king Laius was savagely murdered along with the members of his entourage. Furthermore the murder has yet to be solved many years later, and the gods have placed a plague on his city until the murderer(s) is apprehended and punished. After learning of the death of Laius, Oedipus concludes that the murderer is "a thief, so daring, so wild, he'd kill a king? [It's] impossible, unless conspirators paid him off in Thebes" (140-142). Creon concurs that this thought had also crossed his mind. So with this evidence, it is easy to see why Oedipus is distrustful of his own peers.

Maybe the actual killing of Laius and his four servants is an extreme display of Oedipus' murderous temperament. While it may seem a bit extreme in hindsight, at the time of the incident his actions are totally justifiable.

What is this error of judgement. The term Aristotle uses here, hamartia, often translated “tragic

flaw,”(A.C.Bradely) has been the subject of much debate. Aristotle, as writer of the Poetics, has

had many a lusty infant, begot by some other critic, left howling upon his doorstep; and of all

these (which include the bastards Unity-of-Time and Unity-of-Place) not one is more trouble to

those who got to take it up than the foundling ‘Tragic Flaw’. Humphrey House, in his lectures

(Aristotle’s Poetics, ed. Colin Hardie (London, 1956), p.94) delivered in 1952-3, commented

upon this tiresome phrase: “The phrase ‘tragic flaw’ should be treated with suspicion. I do not

know when it was first used, or by whom. It is not an Aristotelian metaphor at all, and though it

might be adopted as an accepted technical translation of ‘hamartia’ in the strict and properly

limited sense, the fact is that it has not been adopted, and it is far more commonly used for a

characteristic moral failing in an otherwise predominantly good man. Thus, it may be said by

some writers to be the ‘tragic flaw’ of Oedipus that he was hasty in temper; of Samson that he

was sensually uxorious; of Macbeth that he was ambitious; of Othello that he was proud and

jealous – and so on … but these things do not constitute the ‘hamartia’ of those characters in

Aristotle’s sense.”

Mr. House goes on to urge that ‘all serious modern Aristotelian scholarship agrees … that

‘hamartia’ means an error which is derived from ignorance of some material fact or

circumstance, and he refers to Bywater and Rostangni in support of his view. But although ‘all

serious modern scholarship’ may have agreed to this point in 1952-3, in 1960 the good news has

not yet reached the recesses of the land and many young students of literature are still apparently

instructed in the theory of the ‘tragic flaw; a theory which appears at first sight to be a most

convenient device for analyzing tragedy but which leads the unfortunate user of it into a

quicksand of absurdities in which he rapidly sinks, dragging the tragedies down with him.

In his edition of Aristotle on the Art of Poetry (Oxford, 1909), Ingram Bywater refers to such a

misreading, though without using the term ‘tragic flaw’: “Hamartia in the Aristotelian sense of

the term is a mistake or error of judgement (error in Lat.), and the deed done in consequence of it

is an erratum. In the Ethics an errtum is said to originate not in vice or depravity but in ignorance

of some material fact or circumstance … this ignorance, we are told in another passage, takes the

deed out of the class of voluntary acts, and enables one to forgive or even pity the doer.”

The meaning of the Greek word is closer to “mistake” than to “flaw,” “a wrong step blindly

taken”, “the missing of mark”, and it is best interpreted in the context of what Aristotle has to say

about plot and “the law or probability or necessity.” In the ideal tragedy, claims Aristotle, the

protagonist will mistakenly bring about his own downfall—not because he is sinful or morally

weak, but because he does not know enough. The role of the hamartia in tragedy comes not from

its moral status but from the inevitability of its consequences. Both Butcher and Bywater agree

that hamartia is not a moral failing. This error of judgment may arise form: (i) ignorance

(Oedipus),

(ii) hasty – careless view(Othello)

(iii) decision taken voluntarily but not deliberately(Lear, Hamlet).

The error of judgement is derived form ignorance of some material fact or circumstance.

Hamartia is accompanied by moral imperfections (Oedipus, Macbeth). Hence the peripeteia is

really one or more self-destructive actions taken in blindness, leading to results diametrically

opposed to those that were intended (often termed tragic irony), and the anagnorisis is the

gaining of the essential knowledge that was previously lacking. Butcher is of the view that,

“Oedipus the king – includes all three meanings of hamartia, which in English cannot be termed

by a single term…. Othello is the modern example, Oedipus in the ancient, are the two most

conspicuous examples of ruin wrought by characters, noble, indeed, but not without defects,

acting in the dark and, as it seemed, for the best.”

Hamartia is Modern plays: Hamartia is practically removed from the hero and he becomes a

victim of circumstance – a mere puppet. The villain in Greek plays was destiny, now its

circumstances. The hero was powerful, he struggled but at the end of the day, death is inevitable.

Modern heroes, dies several deaths – passive – not the doer of the action but receiver. The

concept of heroic figures in tragedy has now become practically out of date. It was appropriate to

the ages when men of noble birth and eminent positions were viewed as the representative

figures of society. Today, common men are representative of society and life.

2. On what account does Coleridge attack Wordsworth's views on poetic diction?

Ans:

Wordsworth and Coleridge came together early in life. It was in 1796, that they were frequently together, and out of their mutual discussion arose the various theories which Wordsworth embodied in his Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, and which he tried to put into practice in the poems. Coleridge claimed credit for these theories and said they were, “half the child of his brain.” But later on, his views underwent a change, he no longer agreed with Wordsworth’s theories, and so criticised them in Chapter XVII and XVIII of the Biographia Literaria. Coleridge’s criticism is the last word on the subject, it has not been improved upon upto date.

Wordsworth’s Views

1. Reasons for His Choice of Rustic Life : In his Preface, Wordsworth made three important statements all of which have been objects of Coleridge’s censure. First of all, Wordsworth writes that he chose low and rustic life, because in that condition the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language; because in that condition of life our elementary feelings coexist in a state of greater simplicity and consequently may be more accurately contemplated and more forcibly communicated; because the manners of rural life germinate from those elementary feelings, and from the necessary character of rural occupations are more easily comprehended and are more durable; and lastly, ‘because in that condition the passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature.’

2.   Choice of Rustic Language : Secondly, that, “The language too of these men is adopted (purified indeed from what appears to be its real defects, from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men hourly communicate with the best objects from which the best
of language is originally derived; and because, from their rank in society and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse being less under the action of social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions.”

3.   Diction of Poetry : Thirdly, he made a number of statements regarding the language and diction of poetry. Of these, Coleridge controverts the following parts : “a selection of the real language of men”; “the language of these men (i. e. men in low and rustic life) I propose to myself to imitate, and as far as possible to adopt the very language of men”; and “between the language of prose and that of metrical composition there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference.”

Coleridge’s Criticism

As regards the first statement, the choice of rustic characters and life, Coleridge points out, first, that not all Wordsworth’s characters are chosen from low or rustic life. Characters in the poems like Ruth, Michael, The Brothers, are not low and rustic in the usual acceptance of these words. Secondly, their language and sentiments do not necessarily arise from their abode or occupation. They are attributable to causes which would result in similar sentiments and language, even if these characters were living in a different place and carrying on different occupations. These causes are primarily two (a) independence which raises a man above servility; and frugal life and industrious domestic life, and (b) a solid religious education which makes a man well-versed in the Bible and other holy books to the exclusion of other books. The admirable qualities we notice in the language and sentiments of Wordsworth’s characters result from these two causes, and not from their rural life and occupation, or their contemplation of nature. Even if they lived in the city, away from Nature. They would have similar sentiments and similar language, if they were subject to the two causes mentioned by Wordsworth. In the opinion of Coleridge, a man will not be benefitted from life in rural solitudes, unless he has (a) natural sensibility, and (b) suitable education. In the absence of these advantages in rural conditions the maid hardens and a man grows “selfish, sensual, gross, and hard-hearted.” Coleridge agrees with Aristotle’s view that the characters of poetry must be universal and typical. They must represent some particular class, as well as general human nature. He writes, “poetry is essentially ideal, that it avoids and excludes all accident: that its apparent individualities of rank, character or occupation must be representatives of a class; and that the persons of poetry must be clothed with generic attributes, with the common attributes of the class; not with such as one gifted individual might possibly possess, but such as from his situation it is most probably beforehand that he would possess.” Wordsworth’s characters are representatives in this sense.

As regards the second statement of Wordsworth, Coleridge objects to the view that the best of language is derived from the objects with which the rustics hourly communicate. First, communication with an object implies reflection on it, and the richness of vocabulary arises from such reflection. Now the rural conditions of life do not require any reflection, hence the vocabulary of the rustic is poor. They can express only the barest facts of nature, and not the ideas and thoughts               universal laws which result from reflection on such facts. Secondly, the best part of a man’s language does not result merely from communication with nature, but from education, from the mind’s dwelling on noble thoughts and ideals of the master minds of humanity. Whatever noble and poetic phrases, words and arrangement of words the rustics use, are derived not from nature, but from repeated listening to The Bible and to the sermons of noble and inspired preachers.

Coleridge on Poetic Diction

Coming then to a detailed consideration of Wordsworth’s theory of poetic diction, he takes up his statements, one by one, and demonstrates that his views are not justified. Wordsworth asserts that the language of poetry is “a selection of the real language of man or the very language of man; and that there was no essential difference between the language of prose and that of poetry.” Coleridge reports that “every man’s language, varies according to the extent of his knowledge, the activity of his faculties and the depth or quickness of his feelings.” Every man’s language has, first, its individual peculiarities; secondly, the properties common to the class to which he belongs; and thirdly, words and phrases of universal use. “No two men of the same class or of different classes speak alike, although both use words and phrases common to them all, because in the one case their natures are different and in the other their classes are different.”

This applies much to the language of rustics, as to that of townsmen. In both cases the language varies from person to person, class to class, and place to place. Which of these varieties of language, asks Coleridge, is ‘the real language of men.’ Each, he re plies, has to be purged of its uncommon or accidental features (such as those picked up from family, profession, or locality) before it can become the ordinary (i. e. generally spoken) language of men ‘Omit the particularities of each, and the result ofcourse must be common to all. And assuredly the commissions and changes to be made in the language and rustics, before it could be transferred to any species of poem, except the drama or other professed imitation, are at least as numerous and weighty as would be required in adapting to the same purpose the ordinary language of tradesmen and manufacturers.’ “Such a language alone has a universal appeal and is, therefore, the language of poetry.” A language so generalised, so selected, and also so purified of what is gross and vulgar will differ in no way from the language of any other man of commonsense.” Coleridge objects to Wordsworth’s use of the words ‘very’ or ‘real’ and suggests that ‘ordinary’ or ‘generally’ aught to have been used. Wordsworth’s addition of the words “in a state of excitement,” is meaningless, says Coleridge, for emotional excitement may result in a more concentrated expression, but it cannot create a noble and richer vocabulary.

To Wordsworth’s contention that there is no essential difference between the language of poetry and that of prose, Coleridge replies that there is, and there ought to be, an essential difference between the language of prose and that of poetry. The language of poetry differs from that of prose in the same way in which the language of prose differs, and ought to differ, from language of conversion, and as reading differs from talking. Coleridge gives a number of reasons in support of his view. First, language is both a matter of words, and the arrangement of those words. Now words both in prose and poetry may be the same, but their arrangement is different. This difference arises from the fact that poetry uses metre, and metre requires a different arrangement of words. As Coleridge has already shown, metre is not mere superficial decoration, but an essential, organic part of a poem. Hence there is bound to be an ‘essential difference between the language, i. e. the arrangement of words, of poetry and of prose. There is the difference even in those poems of Wordsworth which are considered most Words worthian. In fact, metre medicates the whole atmosphere and so, even the metaphors and similes used by a poet are different in quality and frequency from those of prose.

Further, it cannot be demonstrated that the language of prose and poetry are identical, and so convertible. There may be certain lines or even passages which can be used both in prose and poetry, but not all the lines or passages can be used thus. There are passages which will suit the one, and not the other.

Coleridge’s devotion of Wordsworth’s theory remains even now one of the finest examples of literary criticism. His essay on Wordsworth has been regarded by Thomas M. Raysor as ‘the finest critical essay in English literature.’

5. What is Raymond William's contribution to the beginning of Cultural Studies at Birmingh

Ans:

What is culture? This is a persistent historical problem. All historians, especially cultural historians, hold a theory about culture, stated or not. This is also an intellectual historical problem in that, whereas culture is constantly theorized, perhaps over-theorized—every modern mode of thought involves a cultural theory—rarely are the origins and trajectory of the word “culture” studied historically.
In the most recent edition of New Left Review (Jan-Feb 2009), Francis Mulhern considers these problems by way of a retrospective glance at Raymond Williams’ famous work, Culture and Society (1961).
Mulhern argues that Williams’ theory of culture, Marxist in its emphasis on class formation, has stood the test of time. “For all that has changed,” Mulhern writes, “the capitalist ordering of social life has not changed.” That said, the concept of class is not what makes the theory persistently compelling. Rather, that Williams (somewhat surprisingly) uses Edmund Burke’s notion of national “continuity” as his initial departure is what allows his work to transcend some of the more influential theories of culture that have proliferated in twentieth-century western thought.
The first important such theory, according to Mulhern, is literary criticism, which has worn a number of political masks, from the conservatism of New Humanism to the Marxism of the Frankfurt School. This mode of analysis understands culture as “high,” as standing above the barbarous, unrefined masses, as a true expression of the best a society has to offer, usually thought to be rooted in the universal. The second is that of “Cultural Studies” proper, centered on the Birmingham School in England, which valorized popular culture as the most important social expression. Birmingham theorists such as Stuart Hall imbued popular culture with political meaning, sometimes repressive, but often, counter-intuitively, subversive or transgressive.
In contrast to these two important theories of culture, Williams conceived of culture, taking his cue from Burke, as “customary difference”: Our culture is that which we are accustomed to and that which others are not. Mulhern explains that “both parameters [‘custom’ and ‘difference’] are essential: custom, or anything understood as custom, takes precedence over other modes of social validation, and its currency is difference. Thus, culture is what differentiates a collectivity in the mode of self-validating direct inheritance—whose value, in return, is precisely that it binds the collectivity in difference.” Mulhern goes on to argue that, rather than acting as a dialectic synthesis of the literary criticism and Cultural Studies iterations of culture, both formulations extend from “customary difference.” Mulhern writes:
“Culture as customary difference is not, in any final respect, a third variety, to be listed along with the high, minoritarian reserves defended by cultural criticism, and the popular forms and practices valorized by Cultural Studies. It exhibits essential features of both. It is a form of assertion of the cultural principle that is normative, at least for the particular collective it identifies—how ‘we’ really, properly are—and in some cases makes universal claims, as in the spotlit instance of purist Islam. At the same time, it is popular, more or less, in its human resources and appeal, understood as a necessary defence against the encroachments of the encircling, overweening other, which takes many forms: racism and bigotry, but also liberalism, modernity, Godlessness, materialism, selfishness, immorality, Americanization and so on. And if the discourse of culture as customary difference thus combines features of the two, this is not because it embodies a kind of dialectical resolution. On the contrary, it is because culture in this sense is the first form, the matrix from which the familiar varieties of cultural criticism (and, indirectly, cultural studies) emerged.”
So much for locating Williams in the intellectual history of cultural theory: How does this concept of customary difference help to explain contemporary history? Mulhern explains it relative to twin responses to modern life: multiculturalism and traditionalism. With regard to the former, although Mulhern reiterates the standard Marxist critique of multiculturalism—that it only opens up freedom and opportunity within the narrow, prescriptive framework of liberal capitalism—he uses the notion of customary difference to critique multiculturalism on more standard liberal grounds. That is, because the state has made multiculturalism official policy (here he is referencing Britain, but this also works in the context of the United States), it has focused attention on customary difference like never before, thus hardening cultural stereotypes. This has especially been true of the large Muslim immigrant population in Britain.
Something similar has happened in the invention of tradition—“a process in which collectivities adapt their inheritance for changed conditions.” Mulhern writes: “Customary difference is most strongly confirmed in the plane of religion, whether as doctrine, as worship, as spiritual observance or as sanctioned behaviour. The culminating effect of this discursive logic, where the contingencies of inheritance and situation favour it, is to strengthen traditionalism, the systematic advocacy of customary relations and practices, and to confirm its beneficiaries as natural leaders of populations invariably called community.”
In short, I think Mulhern (by way of Williams’ theory of customary difference) offers a compelling historical theory of the American “culture wars,” so-called, of the past thirty years or so. The very accentuation of custom, either to affirm or denounce difference—responses that act as two sides of the same coin—increases tribal hostility and displaces other forms of antagonism that might be more productive, such as class hostility. I welcome comments.