It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a critic intent upon
analysis and interpretation, must be in want of a good text.[1] It is also universally acknowledged
that
we live in an age of criticism, indeed of "new criticism"—which
means
that we as critics are dedicated to a very close reading of the text.
Sometimes, it is true, that critical principle leads to abuses. The
symbol-hunting, the ambiguity-spinning become wonders to behold. As one
objector has put it, "nose to nose, the critic confronts writer and,
astonished, discovers himself."[2]
Nonetheless, the principle of close reading is held central by us all.
Immediately that one contemplates novel criticism, however, an oddity
appears: the last thing we find in a discussion by a new critic is some
analysis of the actual text.
The modern critic is apt to be entirely indifferent to the textual
problems of a novel. He is all too prone to examine rigorously a faulty text.
As Gordon Ray and others have pointed out, even the Great Cham of
British Criticism errs in this respect. F. R. Leavis defends the early Henry
James in The Great Tradition: "Let me insist, then, at once,
.
. . that his [James's] 'first attempt at a novel,' Roderick
Hudson
(1874), in spite of its reputation, is a very distinguished book that deserves
permanent currency—much more so than many novels passing as
classics." Professor Ray adds that "Mr. Leavis goes on to quote three long
paragraphs to illustrate the novel's 'sustained maturity of theme and
treatment. . . .' These remarks are amply warranted by the passage that
Mr. Leavis cites. But unhappily he has quoted, not the text of the first
edition of 1877 [while carefully dating it from the time of composition to
make it appear all the more precocious], which is simple
enough, but that of the New york edition of 1907, revised in James's
intricate later manner. This leaves him," concludes Leavis's critic, "in the
position of having proved at length what nobody would think of denying,
that James's writing at the age of sixty-four has all the characteristics of
maturity."
[3]
Unhappily, few of us can afford to laugh at the poor new critic. We
all know the truth that we must have a good text, but most of us do not act
upon it. A commonplace? Yes, and unfortunately, I have only that
commonplace to urge; but I claim good company. Jane Austen, with whom
I started, recognized that Pride and Prejudice had no
profoundly
new meaning. She ironically developed upon commonplaces: don't act on
first impressions; don't interfere in your best friend's love affair; don't
ignore your younger daughters. My point is that, ironically, everyone
ignores the bibliographical study of the novel. People who would consider
it terribly bad form to slight the textual study of a play or poem—or
even
doggerel—commit bibliographical nonsense when handed a novel. It
seems that the novel just doesn't count. A key error in many studies of the
novel is simply this, that the novel is unconsciously considered a different
order of thing from poetry—a poem's text must be
approached seriously. I shall illustrate by mentioning the sins of editors,
reprinters, publishers, scholars, and, alas, bibliographers. Then, after
discussing a few of the many reasons for this bibliographical heresy, I shall
turn to my main illustration of the need for textual bibliography, The
Great Gatsby.
