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From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

George Steiner
Born Francis George Steiner
April 23, 1929 (1929-04-23) (age 80)
Paris, France
Occupation Author, essayist, literary critic, professor
Nationality French, United States
Writing period 1960 – present
Genres Essay, history, literature, literary fiction
Subjects Language, Literature, The Holocaust
Notable work(s) After Babel (1975)
Notable award(s) The Truman Capote Lifetime Achievement Award (1998)
Spouse(s) Zara Shakow Steiner
Children David, Deborah

Francis George Steiner[1], FBA (born April 23, 1929[2]), is an influential[3] European-born American literary critic, essayist, philosopher, novelist, translator, and educator.[4] He has written extensively about the relationship between language, literature and society, and the impact of The Holocaust.[5] A polyglot and polymath, he is often credited with redefining the role of the critic.[6]

Steiner is ranked "among the great minds in today's literary world."[2] English novelist A. S. Byatt described him as a "late, late, late Renaissance man ... a European metaphysician with an instinct for the driving ideas of our time."[6] Harriet Harvey-Wood, a former literature director of the British Council, saw him as a "magnificent lecturer – prophetic and doom-laden [who would] turn up with half a page of scribbled notes, and never refer to them."[6]

Steiner was Professor Emeritus of English and Comparative Literature at the University of Geneva (1974–1994), Professor of Comparative Literature and Fellow at the University of Oxford (1994–1995) and Professor of Poetry at Harvard University (2001–2002).[7]

He lives in Cambridge, England, where he has been Extraordinary Fellow at Churchill College at the University of Cambridge since 1969. He is married to author and historian Zara Shakow Steiner, and they have a son, David Steiner (Dean of the School of Education at Hunter College) and a daughter, Deborah Steiner (Professor of Classics at Columbia University).[7]





George Steiner was born in 1929 in Paris, France to Jewish Viennese parents Dr Frederick George Steiner and Mrs Else Steiner (née Franzos). He has an older sister, Ruth Lilian, who was born in Vienna in 1922.[8] Frederick Steiner was a senior lawyer in the Austrian Central Bank and Else Steiner was a Viennese grande dame.[9] Five years earlier Steiner's father had moved his family from Austria to France to escape the growing threat of Nazism there. He believed that Jews were "endangered guests wherever they went"[6] and equipped his children with languages. Steiner grew up with three mother tongues, German, English and French; his mother was multilingual and would often "begin a sentence in one language and end it in another."[6] At the age of six years, his father, who believed in a good classical education, taught him to read Homer's epic poem, the Iliad, in the original Greek.[6][10][11] His mother, for whom "self-pity was nauseating",[6] helped Steiner overcome a handicap he had been born with, a withered right arm. Instead of becoming left-handed she insisted he use his right hand as an able-bodied person would.[6]

Steiner's first formal education took place at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly in Paris. In 1940, during World War II, Steiner's father once again relocated his family, this time to New York City. Within a month of their move, the Nazis occupied Paris, and of the many Jewish children in Steiner's class at school, he was only one of two who survived the war.[6] Again his father's insight had saved his family, and this made Steiner feel like a survivor, which profoundly influenced his later writings. "My whole life has been about death, remembering and the Holocaust."[6] Steiner became a "grateful wanderer", saying that "Trees have roots and I have legs; I owe my life to that."[6] He spent the rest of his school years at the Lycée Français de New York in Manhattan, and became a United States citizen in 1944.

After school Steiner went to the University of Chicago where he studied literature as well as mathematics and physics, and obtained a BA degree in 1948. This was followed by an MA degree from Harvard University in 1950. He then attended Balliol College at the University of Oxford in England on a Rhodes Scholarship. After his doctoral thesis at Oxford, a draft of The Death of Tragedy (later published by Faber and Faber), was initially rejected, Steiner took time off his studies to teach English at Williams College, and to work as leader writer for the London based weekly publication The Economist between 1952 and 1956. It was during this time that he met Zara Shakow, a New Yorker of Lithuanian descent. She had also studied at Harvard and they met in London at the suggestion of their former professors. "The professors had had a bet...that we would get married if we ever met."[12] They later married in 1955, the year he received his PhD from Oxford University.[6]


In 1956 Steiner returned to the United States where for two years he was a scholar at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey. He was appointed Gauss Lecturer at Princeton in 1959 where he lectured for another two years. He also held a Fulbright professorship in Innsbruck in Austria from 1958 to 1959. He then became a founding fellow of Churchill College at the University of Cambridge in 1961. Steiner was initially not well received at Cambridge by the English faculty. Many disapproved of this charismatic "firebrand with a foreign accent"[6] and questioned the relevance of the Holocaust he constantly referred to in his lectures. Bryan Cheyette, professor of 20th-century literature at the University of Southampton said that at the time, "Britain [...] didn't think it had a relationship to the Holocaust; its mythology of the war was rooted in the Blitz, Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain."[6] While Steiner received a professorial salary, he was never made a full professor at Cambridge with the right to examine. He had the option of leaving for professorships in the United States, but Steiner's father objected, saying that Hitler, who said no one bearing their name would be left in Europe, would then have won. Steiner remained in England because "I'd do anything rather than face such contempt from my father."[6] He was elected an Extraordinary Fellow at Cambridge in 1969.

After several years as a freelance writer and occasional lecturer, Steiner accepted the post of Professor of English and Comparative Literature at the University of Geneva in 1974, which he held for 20 years, teaching in four languages. He lived by Goethe's maxim that "no monoglot truly knows his own language."[6] He become Professor Emeritus at Geneva University on his retirement in 1994, and an Honorary Fellow at Balliol College at Oxford University in 1995. He has since held the positions of the first Lord Weidenfeld Professor of Comparative Literature and Fellow of St Anne's College at Oxford University from 1994 to 1995, and Norton Professor of Poetry at Harvard University from 2001 to 2002.

Steiner is best known as an intelligent and intellectual critic and essayist.[2] He was active on undergraduate publications while at the University of Chicago and later become a regular contributor of reviews and articles to many journals and newspapers including the Times Literary Supplement and The Guardian. He has written for The New Yorker for over thirty years, contributing over two hundred reviews.[13]

While Steiner generally takes things very seriously, he also reveals an unexpected deadpan humor: when he was once asked if he had ever read anything trivial as a child, he replied, Moby-Dick.[6]


George Steiner is regarded as a polymath and often credited with recasting the role of the critic by exploring art and thought unbounded by national frontiers or academic disciplines. He advocates generalisation over specialisation, and insists that the notion of being literate must encompass knowledge of both arts and sciences. Steiner, who is Jewish, rejects Jewish nationalism and is a critic of Israel's treatment of the Palestinians.[6]

Central to Steiner's thinking, he has stated, "is my astonishment, naïve as it seems to people, that you can use human speech both to love, to build, to forgive, and also to torture, to hate, to destroy and to annihilate."[13]


George Steiner's career spans half a century and he has published ground-breaking essays and books that address the anomalies of contemporary Western culture, issues of language and its "debasement" in the post-Holocaust age.[6][14] His field is primarily comparative literature and his work as a critic has tended toward exploring cultural and philosophical issues, particularly dealing with translation and the nature of language and literature.

Steiner's first published book was Tolstoy or Dostoevsky: An Essay in Contrast (1960), which was a study of the different ideas and ideologies of the Russian writers Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky. The Death of Tragedy (1961) originated as his doctoral thesis at the University of Oxford and examined literature from the ancient Greeks to the mid-20th century. His best-known book, After Babel (1975), was an early and influential contribution to the field of translation studies. It was adapted for television in 1977 as The Tongues of Men and was the inspiration behind the creation in 1983 of the English avant-rock group News from Babel.

Several works of literary fiction by Steiner include three short story collections, Anno Domini: Three Stories (1964), Proofs and Three Parables (1992), A cinq heures de l'après-midi (2008) and The Deeps of the Sea (1996), and his controversial[15] novella, The Portage to San Cristobal of A.H. (1981). Portage to San Cristobal, in which Jewish Nazi hunters find Adolf Hitler (A.H.) alive in the Amazon jungle thirty years after the end of World War II, explored ideas on the origins of European anti-semitism first expounded by him in his 1971 critical work In Bluebeard's Castle. Steiner has suggested that Nazism was Europe's revenge on the Jews for inventing conscience.[6] Cheyette sees Steiner's fiction as "an exploratory space where he can think against himself." It "contrasts its humility and openness with his increasingly closed and orthodox critical work." Central to it is the survivor's "terrible, masochistic envy about not being there – having missed the rendezvous with hell".[6]

No Passion Spent (1996) is a collection of essays on topics as diverse as Kierkegaard, Homer in translation, Biblical texts and Freud's dream theory. Errata: An Examined Life (1997) is a semi-autobiography[2] and Grammars of Creation (2001), based on Steiner's 1990 Gifford lectures, explores a range of subjects from cosmology to poetry.

Awards and honors

George Steiner has received many honors, including:

He has also won numerous awards for his fiction and poetry, including:

  • Remembrance Award (1974) for Language and Silence: Essays 1958-1966.
  • PEN/Macmillan Silver Pen Award (1992) for Proofs and Three Parables.[2]
  • PEN/Macmillan Fiction Prize (1993) for Proofs and Three Parables.[2]
  • Jewish Quarterly Literary Prize for Non-Fiction (joint winner with Louise Kehoe and Silvia Rodgers) (1997) for No Passion Spent.



  • Averil Condren, Papers of George Steiner, Churchill Archives Centre, 2001
  • The Harvard Gazette (27.09.01)
  1. ^ "The Papers of George Steiner". Janus. Retrieved 2008-03-26. "[Steiner] has not used the name Francis since his undergraduate days."  
  2. ^ a b c d e f Hahn, Daniel. "George Steiner". Contemporary Writers in the UK. Retrieved 2008-03-26.  
  3. ^ Cheyette, Bryan. "My Unwritten Books by George Steiner". The Independent, February 1, 2008. Retrieved 2008-03-26.  
  4. ^ Murphy, Rex. "ERRATA: An Examined Life by George Steiner". Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, January 3, 1998. Retrieved 2008-03-26.  
  5. ^ Cheyette, Bryan. "Between Repulsion and Attraction: George Steiner's Post-Holocaust Fiction". Jewish Social Studies. Retrieved 2008-03-26.  
  6. ^ a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u Jaggi, Maya. "George and his dragons". The Guardian, March 17, 2001.,4273,4153494,00.html. Retrieved 2008-03-27.  
  7. ^ a b "The Papers of George Steiner". Janus. Retrieved 2008-03-26.  
  8. ^ "The Papers of Frederick George Steiner". Janus. Retrieved 2008-03-26.  
  9. ^ Steiner, George. "Büchner lives on". The Times Literary Supplement, December 13, 2006. London.,,25341-2501658,00.html. Retrieved 2008-03-27.  
  10. ^ Baker, Kenneth. "Steiner's Memoir a Sketchy Mix of Reminiscence and Complaint". San Francisco Chronicle, April 12, 1998. Retrieved 2008-03-27.  
  11. ^ "Errata: An Examined Life". University of Chicago Magazine. Retrieved 2008-03-27.  
  12. ^ Cowley, Jason. "A traveller in the realm of the mind". The Times, September 22, 1997. Retrieved 2008-03-27.  
  13. ^ a b "Grammars of Creation". National Adult Literacy Database. Retrieved 2008-03-26.  
  14. ^ a b "Literary Critic George Steiner wins Truman Capote Award". Stanford Online Report. Retrieved 2008-03-26.  
  15. ^ Rosenbaum, Ron (2002-03-17). "Mirroring Evil? No, Mirroring Art Theory". The New York Observer. Retrieved 2008-02-28.  
  16. ^ "George Steiner". Prince of Asturias Awards. Retrieved 2008-04-08.  

External links


Up to date as of January 14, 2010

From Wikiquote

(Francis) George Steiner (born 1929-04-23) is a literary critic.



  • The ordinary man casts a shadow. In a way we do not quite understand, the man of genius casts light. Instinctively, we flinch from this light. We assure ourselves that genius must pay a terrible price. Often history bears us out: the creator, the supreme artist, the master of politics carries the scars of his greatness.
    • "Not a Preface, but a Word of Thanks," foreword to Unfinished Journey by Yehudi Menuhin (1977)
  • The age of the book is almost gone.
    • Quoted in The Daily Mail (London, 1988-06-27)
  • There is something terribly wrong with a culture inebriated by noise and gregariousness.
    • Quoted in The Daily Telegraph (London, 1989-05-23)

Tolstoy or Dostoevsky (1960)

  • Literary criticism should arise out of a debt of love. In a manner evident and yet mysterious, the poem or the drama or the novel seizes upon our imaginings. We are not the same when we put down the work as we were when we took it up. To borrow an image from another domain: he who has truly apprehended a painting by Cézanne will thereafter see an apple or a chair as he had not seen them before. Great works of art pass through us like storm-winds, flinging open the doors of perception, pressing upon the architecture of our beliefs with their transforming powers. We seek to record their impact, to put our shaken house in its new order. Through some primary instinct of communion we seek to convey to others the quality and force of our experience. We would persuade them to lay themselves open to it. In this attempt at persuasion originate the truest insights criticism can afford.
    • Ch. 1

The Death of Tragedy (1961)

Yale University Press, 1996, ISBN 0-300-06916-2

  • We are still waging Peloponnesian wars. Our control of the material world and our positive science have grown fantastically. But our very achievements turn against us, making politics more random and wars more bestial.
    • Ch. I (p. 6)
  • Nothing in a language is less translatable than its modes of understatement.
    • Ch. III (p. 104)
  • Tragedy springs from outrage; it protests at the conditions of life. It carries in it the possibilities of disorder, for all tragic poets have something of the rebelliousness of Antigone. Goethe, on the contrary, loathed disorder. He once said that he preferred injustice, signifying by that cruel assertion not his support for reactionary political ideals, but his conviction that injustice is temporary and reparable whereas disorder destroys the very possibilities of human progress. Again, this is an anti-tragic view; in tragedy it is the individual instance of injustice that infirms the general pretence of order. One Hamlet is enough to convict a state of rottenness.
    • Ch. V (p. 167)
  • Increasingly unable to create for itself a relevant body of myth, the modern imagination will ransack the treasure house of the classic.
    • Ch. VI (p. 228)
  • Tragedy speaks not of secular dilemmas which may be resolved by rational innovation, but of the unalterable bias toward inhumanity and destruction in the drift of the world.
    • Ch. VIII (p. 291)
  • The Socratic demonstration of the ultimate unity of tragic and comic drama is forever lost. But the proof is in the art of Chekhov.
    • Ch. VIII (p. 302)
  • Verse no longer stands at the centre of communicative discourse. It is no longer, as it was from Homer to Milton, the natural repository of knowledge and traditional sentiment. It no longer gives to society its main record of past grandeur or its natural setting for prophecy, as it did in Virgil and Dante. Verse has grown private. It is a special language which the individual poet insinuates, by force of personal genius, into the awareness of his contemporaries, persuading to learn and perhaps hand on his own uses of words. Poetry has become essentially lyric — that is to say, it is the poetry of private vision rather than of public or of national occasion.
    • Ch. IX (p. 309)
  • When the modern scholar cites from a classic text, the quotation seems to burn a hole in his own drab page.
    • Ch. IX: (p. 314)
  • Literary criticism has about it neither rigour nor proof. Where it is honest, it is passionate, private experience seeking to persuade.
    • Ch. X (p. 351)

Language and Silence: Essays 1958-1966 (1967)

  • We come after. We know now that a man can read Goethe or Rilke in the evening, that he can play Bach and Schubert, and go to his day's work at Auschwitz in the morning. To say that he has read them without understanding or that his ear is gross, is cant. In what way does this knowledge bear on literature and society, on the hope, grown almost axiomatic from the time of Plato to that of Matthew Arnold, that culture is a humanizing force, that the energies of spirit are transferable to those of conduct?
    • Preface
  • When he looks back, the critic sees a eunuch's shadow. Who would be a critic if he could be a writer? Who would hammer out the subtlest insight into Dostoevsky if he could weld an inch of the Karamazovs, or argue the poise of Lawrence if he could shape the free gust of life in The Rainbow?
    • "Humane Literacy" (1963)
  • The critic lives at second hand. He writes about. The poem, the novel, or the play must be given to him; criticism exists by the grace of other men's genius.
    • "Humane Literacy"
  • Language can only deal meaningfully with a special, restricted segment of reality. The rest, and it is presumably the much larger part, is silence.
    • "The Retreat from the Word," Kenyon Review (Spring 1961)
  • What lies beyond man's word is eloquent of God. That is the joyously defeated recognition expressed in the poems of St. John of the Cross and of the mystic tradition.

    When the word of the poet ceases, a great light begins.

    • "Silence and the Poet" (1966)
  • The capacity for imaginative reflex, for moral risk in any human being is not limitless; on the contrary, it can be rapidly absorbed by fictions, and thus the cry in the poem may come to sound louder, more urgent, more real than the cry in the street outside. The death in the novel may move us more potently than the death in the next room.
    • "To Civilize our Gentlemen" (1965)
  • The new pornographers subvert this last, vital privacy; they do our imagining for us. They take away the words that were of the night and shout them over the roof-tops, making them hollow.
    • "Night Words," Encounter (October 1965)
  • It was a brilliant, mutinous period. Brecht gave back to German prose its Lutheran simplicity and Thomas Mann brought into his style the supple, luminous elegance of the classic and Mediterranean tradition. These years, 1920-33, were the anni mirabiles of the modern German spirit.
    • "The Hollow Miracle" (1959)
  • For let us keep one fact clearly in mind: the German language was not innocent of the horrors of Nazism. It is not merely that a Hitler, a Goebbels, and a Himmler happened to speak German. Nazism found in the language precisely what it needed to give voice to its savagery. Hitler heard inside his native tongue the latent hysteria, the confusion, the quality of hypnotic trance.
    • "The Hollow Miracle"
  • Words that are saturated with lies or atrocity do not easily resume life.
  • Often the children went alone, or held the hands of strangers. Sometimes parents saw them pass and did not dare call out their names. And they went, of course, not for anything they had done or said. But because their parents existed before them. The crime of being one's children.
    • "A Kind of Survivor" (1965)
  • Men are accomplices to that which leaves them indifferent.
    • "A Kind of Survivor"
  • To shoot a man because one disagrees with his interpretation of Darwin or Hegel is a sinister tribute to the supremacy of ideas in human affairs — but a tribute nevertheless.
    • "Marxism and the Literary Critic," Encounter, XI (November 1958)
  • If future society assumes the contours foretold by Marxism, if the jungle of our cities turns to the polis of man and the dreams of anger are made real, the representative art will be high comedy. Art will be the laughter of intelligence, as it is in Plato, in Mozart, in Stendhal.
    • "Literature and Post-History" (1965)

Extraterritorial (1971)

  • There are three intellectual pursuits, and, so far as I am aware, only three, in which human beings have performed major feats before the age of puberty. They are music, mathematics, and chess.
    • "A Death of Kings"

In Bluebeard's Castle (1971)

  • It is not the literal past that rules us, save, possibly, in a biological sense. It is images of the past. These are often as highly structured and selective as myths. Images and symbolic constructs of the past are imprinted, almost in the manner of genetic information, on our sensibility.
    • "The Great Ennui"
  • Monotheism at Sinai, primitive Christianity, messianic socialism: these are the three supreme moments in which Western culture is presented with what Ibsen termed "the claims of the ideal." These are the three stages, profoundly interrelated, through which Western consciousness is forced to experience the blackmail of transcendence.
    • "A Season in Hell"
  • When it turned on the Jew, Christianity and European civilization turned on the incarnation — albeit an incarnation often wayward and unaware — of its own best hopes.
    • "A Season in Hell"
  • Nothing in the next-door world of Dachau impinged on the great winter cycle of Beethoven chamber music played in Munich. No canvases came off museum walls as the butchers strolled reverently past, guide-books in hand.
    • "In a Post-Culture"
  • The immense majority of human biographies are a gray transit between domestic spasm and oblivion.
    • "In a Post-Culture"
  • As the glossaries lengthen, as the footnotes become more elementary and didactic, the poem, the epic, the drama, move out of balance on the actual page. As even the more rudimentary of mythological, religious or historical references, which form the grammar of Western literature, have to be elucidated, the lines of Spenser, of Pope, of Shelley or of Sweeney Among the Nightingales, blur away from immediacy. Where it is necessary to annotate every proper name and classical allusion in the dialogue between Jessica and Lorenzo in the garden at Belmont, or in Iachimo's stealthy rhetoric when he emerges in Imogen's bedchamber, these marvellous spontaneities of enacted feeling become "literary" and twice-removed.
    • "Tomorrow"
  • Creation of absolutely the first rank — in philosophy, in music, in much of literature, in mathematics — continues to occur outside the American milieu. It is at once taken up and intelligently exploited, but the "motion of the spirit" has taken place elsewhere, amid the enervation of Europe, in the oppressive climate of Russia. There is, in a good deal of American intellectual, artistic production (recent paining may be a challenging exception) a characteristic near-greatness, a strength just below the best. Could it be that the United States is destined to be the "museum culture"?
    • "Tomorrow"
  • A good deal of classical music is, today, the opium of the good citizen.
    • "Tomorrow"
  • The really deep divergence between the humanistic and scientific sensibilities is one of temporality. Very nearly by definition, the scientist knows that tomorrow will be in advance of today. A twentieth-century schoolboy can manipulate mathematical and experimental concepts inaccessible to a Galileo or a Gauss. For a scientist the curve of the future is positive. Inevitably, the humanist looks back.
    • "Tomorrow"
  • We cannot turn back. We cannot choose the dreams of unknowing. We shall, I expect, open the last door in the castle, even if it leads, perhaps because it leads, on to realities which are beyond the reach of human comprehension and control. And we shall do so with that desolate clairvoyance, so marvellously rendered in Bartok's music, because opening doors is the tragic merit of our identity.
    • "Tomorrow"

Fields of Force (1974)

US title. UK title: The Sporting Scene: White Knights of Rekjavik. Essay originally published in The New Yorker

  • Chess may be the deepest, least exhaustible of pastimes, but it is nothing more. As for a chess genius, he is a human being who focuses vast, little-understood mental gifts and labors on an ultimately trivial human enterprise.

George Steiner: A Reader (1984)

  • But I would like to think for a moment about a man who in the morning teaches his students that a false attribution of a Watteau drawing or an inaccurate transcription of a fourteenth-century epigraph is a sin against the spirit and in the afternoon or evening transmits to the agents of Soviet intelligence classified, perhaps vital information given to him in sworn trust by his countrymen and intimate colleagues. What are the sources of such scission? How does the spirit mask itself?
    • "The Cleric of Treason," The New Yorker (1980-12-08)
  • The private ownership of great art, its seclusion from the general view of men and women, let alone from that of interested amateurs and scholars, is a curious business. The literal disappearance of a Turner or a Van Gogh into some Middle Eastern or Latin-American bank vault to be kept as investment and collateral, the sardonic decision of a Greek shipping tycoon to put an incomparable El Greco on his yacht, where it hangs at persistent risk — these are phenomena that verge on vandalism.
    • "The Cleric of Treason"
  • In the Soviet Union, he knew, great art hangs in public galleries. No scholars, no men and women waiting to mend their souls before a Raphael or a Matisse need wait, cap in hand at the mansion door.
    • "The Cleric of Treason"
  • The absolute scholar is in fact a rather uncanny being. He is instinct with Nietzsche's finding that to be interested in something, to be totally interested in it, is a libidinal thrust more powerful than love or hatred, more tenacious than faith or friendship — not infrequently, indeed, more compelling than personal life itself. Archimedes does not flee from his killers, he does not even turn his head to acknowledge their rush into his garden when he is immersed in the algebra of conic sections.
    • "The Cleric of Treason"
  • Fantasizing about action out there in the 'real' world, spinning dreams abut the secret centrality, about the occult importance of the labours in which he has interred his existence — labours that the vast majority of his fellow men would deem wholly marginal and socially wasteful if they knew of them at all — the pure scholar, the master of catalogues, can sup on hatred. At the ordinary level, he will exorcize his spleen in the ad-hominem nastiness of a book review, in the arsenic of a footnote. He will vent his resentments in the soft betrayals of an ambiguous recommendation or examination report and in the scorpion's round of a committee on tenure. The violence stays formal. Not, one supposes, in Professor Blunt.
    • "The Cleric of Treason"

Real Presences (1989)

The University of Chicago Press, 1989, ISBN 0-226-77234-9

I: A Secondary City

  • We speak still of "sunrise" and "sunset." We do so as if the Copernican model of the solar system had not replaced, ineradicably, the Ptolemaic. Vacant metaphors, eroded figures of speech, inhabit our vocabulary and grammar. They are caught, tenaciously, in the scaffolding and recesses of our common parlance. There they rattle about like old rags or ghosts in the attic.
    • Ch. 1 (p. 3)
  • Where God clings to our culture, to our routines of discourse, He is a phantom of grammar, a fossil embedded in the childhood of rational speech. So Nietzsche (and many after him).

    This essay argues the reverse.

    It proposes that any coherent understanding of what language is and how language performs, that any coherent account of the capacity of human speech to communicate meaning and feeling is, in the final analysis, underwritten by the assumption of God's presence.

    • Ch. 1 (p. 3)
  • The private reader of listener can become an executant of felt meaning when he learns the poem or the musical passage by heart. To learn by heart is to afford the text or music an indwelling clarity and life-force.
    • Ch. 3 (p. 9)
  • All serious art, music, literature is a critical act. It is so, firstly, in the sense of Matthew Arnold's phrase: "a criticism of life." Be it realistic, fantastic, Utopian or satiric, the construct of the artist is a counter-statement to the world.
    • Ch. 4 (p. 11)
  • Literature and the arts are also criticism in a more particular and practical sense. They embody an expository reflection on, a value judgement of, the inheritance and context to which they pertain.
    • Ch. 4 (p. 11)
  • The journalistic vision sharpens to the point of maximum impact every event, every individual and social configuration; but the honing is uniform.
    • Ch. 6 (p. 27)
  • What worthwhile book after the Pentateuch has been written by a committee?
    • Ch. 6 (p. 36)
  • To a degree which is difficult to determine, the esoteric impulse in twentieth-century music, literature and the arts reflects calculation. It looks to the flattery of academic and hermeneutic notice. Reciprocally, the academy turns towards that which appears to require its exegetic, cryptographic skills.
    • Ch. 6 (p. 38)

II: The Broken Contract

  • Anything can be said and, in consequence, written about anything.
    • Ch. 1 (p. 53)
  • Talk can neither be verified nor falsified in any rigorous sense. This is an open secret which hermeneutics and aesthetics, from Aristotle to Croce, have laboured to exorcise or to conceal from themselves and their clients. This ontological, which is to say both primordial and essential axiom (or platitude) of ineradicable undecidability needs, none the less, to be closely argued.
    • Ch. 2 (p. 61)
  • Those who proclaim and apply to poetic works a "theory of criticism," a "theoretical hermeneutic" are, today, the masters of the academy and the exemplars in the high gossip of arts and letters. Indeed, they have clarioned "the triumph of the theoretical." They are, in truth, either deceiving themselves or purloining from the immense prestige and confidence of science and technology an instrument ontologically inapplicable to their own material. They would enclose water in a sieve.

    Two indispensable criteria must be satisfied by theory; verifiability or falsifiability by means of experiment and predictive application. There are in art and poetics no crucial experiments, no litmus-paper tests. There can be no verifiable deductions entailing predictable consequences in the very concrete sense in which a scientific theory carries predictive force.

    • Ch. 3 (p. 75)
  • In aesthetic discourse, no interpretative-critical analysis, doctrine or programme is superseded, is erased, by any later construction. The Copernican theory did correct and supersede that of Ptolemy. The chemistry of Lavoisier makes untenable the early phlogiston theory. Aristotle on mimesis and pathos is not superseded by Lessing or Bergson. The Surrealist manifestos of Breton do not cancel out Pope's Essay on Criticism though they may well be antithetical to it.
    • Ch. 3 (p. 76)
  • A sentence always means more. Even a single word, within the weave of incommensurable connotation, can, and usually does.
    • Ch. 4 (p. 82)
  • Almost alone among cognitive-aesthetic movements and strategies of interpretation, deconstruction neither champions any body of past literature or art, nor does it act as vanguard or advocate for any contemporary or incipient school. The New Criticism and T. S. Eliot strove for the revaluation of Metaphysical poetry so as to underwrite, in turn, certain tactics of modenity. Aristotle was advocate for Sophocles. Deconstruction is, intentionally, marginal (a key trope) to all histories of taste and manifestos for innovation.
    • Ch. 7 (p. 117)
  • Even where it is manipulated by major talents, deconstruction tends to bear either on marginal texts (Sade, Lautréamont), or on secondary work by a great writer (Barthes on Balzac's Sarrazine). The classics of deconstruction, in Jacques Derrida or Paul De Man, are "misreadings" not of literature but of philosophy; they address themselves to philosophical linguistics and the theory of language. The masks they seek to strip off are those worn by Plato, by Hegel, by Rousseau, by Nietszche or Saussure. Deconstruction has nothing to tell us of Aeschylus or Dante, of Shakespeare or Tolstoy.
    • Ch. 8 (p. 128)

III: Presences

  • Do the identifications with fictions, the inner, tidal motions of pathos and libido which the novel, the film, the painting, the symphony unleash within us somehow immunize us against the humbler, less formed, but actual claims of suffering and of need in our surroundings? Does the cry in the tragic play muffle, even blot out, the cry in the street?
    • Ch. 1 (p. 144)
  • Self-projection is, more often than not, the move of the minor craftsman, of the tactics of the hour whose inherent weakness is, precisely, that of originality.
    • Ch. 3 (p. 170)
  • Though acts of reception and of understanding are in some measure fictions of ordered intuition, myths of reason, this truth does not justify the denial of intentional conduct. It is as absurd to discard as mendacious, as anarchically opaque, the bearing of contextual probability and suggestion, as it is to invest in such probability any blind trust. The negations of post-structuralism and of certain varieties of deconstruction are precisely as dogmatic, as political as were the positivist equations of archival historicism. The "emptiness of meaning" postulate is no less a priori, no less a case of despotic reductionism than were, say, the axioms of economic and psycho-sociological causality in regard to the generation of meaning in literature and the arts in turn-of-the-century pragmatism and scientism.
    • Ch. 3 (pp. 174-175)
  • Cheap music, childish images, the vulgate in language, in its crassest sense, can penetrate to the deeps of our necessities and dreams. It can assert irrevocable tenure there. The opening bars, the hammer-beat accelerando of Edith Piaf's Je ne regrette rien — the text is infantile, the tune stentorian, and the politics which enlisted the song unattractive — tempt every nerve in me, touch the bone with a cold burn and draw me into God knows what infidelities to reason, each time I hear the song, and hear it, uncalled for, recurrent inside me.
    • Ch. 4 (p. 183)
  • To starve a child of the spell of the story, of the canter of the poem, oral or written, is a kind of living burial. It is to immure him in emptiness.
    • Ch. 4 (pp. 190-191)
  • For many human beings, religion has been the music which they believe in.
    • Ch. 6 (p. 218)
  • For it is a plain fact that, most certainly in the West, the writings, works of art, musical compositions which are of central reference, comport that which is "grave and constant" (Joyce's epithets) in the mystery of our condition.
    • Ch. 6 (p. 224)
  • What I affirm is the intuition that where God's presence is no longer a tenable supposition and where His absence is no longer a felt, indeed overwhelming weight, certain dimensions of thought and creativity are no longer attainable. And I would vary Yeats's axiom so as to say: no man can read fully, can answer answeringly to the aesthetic, whose "nerve and blood" are at peace in sceptical rationality, are now at home in immanence and verification. We must read as if.
    • Ch. 7 (p. 229)


  • More and more lower-middle-income families either live their lives in debt or leave the city altogether. The boom is strictly at the penthouse level.
  • The most important tribute any human being can pay to a poem or piece of prose he or she really to learn it by heart. Not by brain, by heart; the expression is vital. When two of God's children join hands and hearts, all of Heaven rejoices. Thanks to a subscriber.

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