Literary Criticism is a WASTE OF TIME
You know who writes literary criticism? People who wish they could write literature.
Sometimes literary criticism can be valuable; an obvious instance is an essay on an obscure but brilliant text that nobody has the patience to read and/or translate (e.g. Greek poetry, anything by Proust, anything written in India). Other times it can be a pretentious waste of time; for instance, anything written about symbolism, through a feminist lens, or about William Carlos Williams*. Often, however, it is worse. It is a morally corrupt exhibit of arrogance, elitism, and pettiness--sort of like everything Roger Ebert does.
Whatever one's opinion of Roger Ebert, it must be said that to his credit, he has a truly comforting look in his eyes that just says, "Don't worry. I only rape minorities."
You're probably thinking, "Hey, reviewing movies for a living isn't that bad." Well, it is. But that's not what I'm getting at. I'm talking about critics who evaluate, instead of elucidate, great works and great writers--the people who, as Salinger's Franny Glass put it, "try to tear down the giants."
(At this point, if you're wondering who Franny Glass is, just close this page and find a copy of Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger, and quit wasting your time on this pointless blahg. I mean it.)
Let's make something clear. It doesn't take a degree in anything to recognize that literature is the written account of the millennia-long dialogue between artists the world, and, even more basically, artists and each other. Renowned critics point this out all the time in convoluted theses as if it took a Ph.D. from Yale to come up with it. In case you were wondering: Yes, 'renowned' in that last sentence was ironic. Nobody cares about critics, except other critics, and students who need to slog through their garbage in order to make a passing grade in a course built around a medium that was originally meant to enrich and entertain. A renowned critic is like an athletic cop--rare and entirely coincidental.
Appearances can be deceiving. In the case of Harold Bloom they are not.
So if literature is a dialogue, what can a critic add to it? Well, same as most of the things I add to real-life conversation: irrelevant tangents, confusion, needless sexual tension, and noise. Basically, people respond to critics in the same way they respond to me. In ascending order of frequency:
"Yeah, we know."
"Mmmbullshit."
"So?"
"Why are you sticky?"
I think these results are fitting. There is really no reason to take literary criticism seriously, and every reason to suspect it of poor hygiene. I've heard from several reliable sources that homeless people use their pages for crotch padding and to house-break (box-break?) their pet rats. I want to believe this. It would mean at least someone's found a good use for it.
So here's my message to all literary critics and would-be literary critics: nobody is listening. If you want someone to care what you have to say about literature, write some literature. If it isn't any good, don't worry; it just means you don't really have anything to say after all.
(At this point, if you're wondering who Franny Glass is, just close this page and find a copy of Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger, and quit wasting your time on this pointless blahg. I mean it.)
Let's make something clear. It doesn't take a degree in anything to recognize that literature is the written account of the millennia-long dialogue between artists the world, and, even more basically, artists and each other. Renowned critics point this out all the time in convoluted theses as if it took a Ph.D. from Yale to come up with it. In case you were wondering: Yes, 'renowned' in that last sentence was ironic. Nobody cares about critics, except other critics, and students who need to slog through their garbage in order to make a passing grade in a course built around a medium that was originally meant to enrich and entertain. A renowned critic is like an athletic cop--rare and entirely coincidental.
Appearances can be deceiving. In the case of Harold Bloom they are not.So if literature is a dialogue, what can a critic add to it? Well, same as most of the things I add to real-life conversation: irrelevant tangents, confusion, needless sexual tension, and noise. Basically, people respond to critics in the same way they respond to me. In ascending order of frequency:
"Yeah, we know."
"Mmmbullshit."
"So?"
"Why are you sticky?"
These graphs came from God. The formatting did not.
I think these results are fitting. There is really no reason to take literary criticism seriously, and every reason to suspect it of poor hygiene. I've heard from several reliable sources that homeless people use their pages for crotch padding and to house-break (box-break?) their pet rats. I want to believe this. It would mean at least someone's found a good use for it.
So here's my message to all literary critics and would-be literary critics: nobody is listening. If you want someone to care what you have to say about literature, write some literature. If it isn't any good, don't worry; it just means you don't really have anything to say after all.
