Kornbluh, Anna. We Have Never Been Critical - Toward The Novel As Critique
Kornbluh, Anna. We Have Never Been Critical - Toward The Novel As Critique
Kornbluh, Anna. We Have Never Been Critical - Toward The Novel As Critique
I am grateful to Nancy Armstrong for the invitation to be polemical and to Kasia Bartoszynska,
Nathan Hensely, Robert Ryan, Zach Samalin, Scott Selisker, and Davis Smith-Brecheisen for
sparring.
prized at 28 million kroner by the government of Denmark, which argues that lit-
erary and arts scholars have fallen into a rote posture of detachment that ought to be
replaced with inquiries into “attachments . . . affection and hope.” Felski dissects
what she calls “the mood of critique”—the attitude of suspicion, the insinuation of
expertise, the spatial logic of “digging down and standing back” that she associates
with a dominance of Marxist and psychoanalytic approaches in the humanities,
which all, in her analysis, hinder greater access to what matters about literary texts:
their capacity to inspire attachments in the reader. Thoroughly inspired by the
theologian and sociologist of science Bruno Latour, whose books We Have Never Been
Modern and Reassembling the Social dismantle secularist conceits of science and pre-
tenses of abstraction, Felski trains her sights on the unacknowledged theologies of
critical distance in the humanities. Where critique is negative, Felski seeks the affir-
mative; where critique asks what a work does in the world, postcritique asks what a
work means in the reading chair, and the diminished scope of the question ostensibly
harkens its greater legitimacy—since, according to Latour, society does not exist,
and epistemic pretensions must be leavened with microscopic focus on individual
agents and the local networks that directly enmesh them. Felski, like others who cite
the mood of critique as the cause of assailed humanities, ignores the boring necessity
that disaffection and stagnation among humanists stem surely as much from the
precarity of their labor and the contraction of their industry as from the negativity of
their theories. In place of the Marxist technique of following the money and deter-
mination by the base, Felski offers determinism by Marxism: too much critique, too
influenced by Marx and Freud, has made the humanities too negative, too hollow.
It should be underscored that Felski’s work is absolutely refreshing in its quest
for more commanding studies of literature’s agency—for less emphasis on lit-
erature as ideology, as technology of domination, as chained to context—and for
more comprehensive accounts of what is affirmative and affirmable in the
humanities. But sourcing the crisis in method to our exhausted feelings about the
mood of critique and proposing chipper feelings as the answer to crisis are both
unfortunate psychologisms. Where most Marxists have thus greeted the book
with—surprise!—critique, critique of psychologism, of raking strawmen, of mis-
construing as hermeneutics the very antihermeneutic materialisms of Marxism and
psychoanalysis, we can also embrace that Felski has the wrong answer (affect) to the
right question: how can literary critics and humanists generally be more affirmative?
There are heartier things to be affirmed about literature than the affects it arouses
in individuals. Literary form is more social than that.
Far beyond endorphin boosting and empathogenesis, literature offers precisely
the counterhegemony that has fueled the perennial crisis of the humanities. With a
long and political-economic view of crisis, we can best conceptualize that the arts
and literature contravene modern democratic capitalism through their constitu-
tively speculative, generative utopianism—their deliberate building of something
other than what already exists, their formalization of other, different, better ideas
and relations than what is already here. In departing from the merely made world
and proposing other worlds, literature operates both the negative and affirmative
poles of critique, positing imaginative, alluring alternatives to our raging, dysto-
pian hellscape of capitalist contradiction, climate catastrophe, and insurgent global
1
The genealogically inclined will no doubt find relevant Nicholas Brown’s insight that the idea of
literature co-emerges with the dialectic as such, in the same time and place, with the Jena school
romantics.
readily situate the novel as ideology or as evidence, but when questions of its
ontology are broached, disruption reigns—the antigenre genre, the formless form,
the evasively innovative relentlessly high-low, unabstractable I-know-it-when-I-
see-“a novel”-on-the-cover. Within literary study, it is indeed common from a
variety of methodological and political standpoints to refuse a theory of literature
more broadly—championing instead literature as the singular, the resistance to
theory, the anti-abstraction. Moreover, as Caroline Levine has observed, most of our
discipline has argued itself out of the very possibility of theory through its sys-
tematic dismissal of generalization and the general, its dismantling of universals,
its prizing of the situated and the particular (xii). But the novel, with its constitutive
admixture of the general and the singular—the exceptional and the typical, the
adventuresome and the quotidian, romance and realism—seems to demand the-
ory, demand that the general be kept in play.
These nontheoretical tendencies are part and parcel of the scientizing trends in
humanist methods for the past three decades and more, another obstacle. Felski
correctly diagnoses the moribund state of literary criticism’s turgid historicism, yet
for her the difficulty is that contextualism fails to explain how works attach to
readers in the future—where for a strong literary ontology, one should also wonder
after how literature detaches itself from its own present. Literary study has been
dominated by methods that peg literature to causes, and by unaspirational cata-
loging of the facts and artifacts of the past. Ceding our knowledge paradigms
almost entirely to science, we humanists have failed to champion literature as more
than evidence, more than information, more than data. Positivist historicism has
inoculated us against literature’s critical capacity by correlating every word to a
referent, every work to a cause, so comprehensively reducing literature’s concep-
tuality and creativity that its otherworldliness, its making of something new or else,
falls completely out of sight. If literature is not thought but index, not creation but
document, then there can be no possibility of its functioning as critique. Without
independent ideas, it cannot promote alternatives.
Additionally, and most vexingly, there is a marked tendency, precisely within
those traditions that do value theory—and that caution against the new historicist/
Latourian Actor Network Theory replacement of capitalism with “power,” of exploi-
tation with “discourse,” of causality with multilateral agency—to nonetheless
operate in nondialectical fashion, subtracting the imaginative quotient from liter-
ature to emphasize truth telling. Thus it becomes almost thinkable that a novel of
critique would exist as something like a genre variant—the social problem novel,
the novel of purpose, reformist fiction, Dickens on a mission. From Friedrich Engels
and Georg Lukács (post–Theory of the Novel) to Lucien Goldman and Fredric Jame-
son, on to Franco Moretti, Alberto Toscano, and Annie McClanahan, Marxist criti-
cism has rather often followed this nondialectical path, embracing in the novel the
limited operation of reporting the truths and reflecting the facts of the made world.
Allotting the novel a certain diagnostic privilege, such theories have nonetheless
reduced the novel’s ability to contemplate possible conditions (material and epistemic
limits, phenomenal and noumenal problems, contradictions and their real movement)
to a lesser ability to documentarily depict pre-existing conditions. In these cases, the
novel is resolved into a position paper or dissolved into an imprint of a putatively
precedent truth, both options occasioning the reduction of literature to the univocity
of discourse. Here, literature is critical to the extent that it resembles a nonliterary
presentation of a critical stance; its ontology as literature is abrogated. And then there
is the matter of the forgone utopianism, since the diagnostic arc commonly lacks a
prognosticative complement. Where the dialectical conceit of the novel as critique
encompasses both that the novel makes thinkable the conditions of social relations
and that a utopian element is consequent upon this thinking, prevailing methods
of literary Marxists have often fallen short on both of these counts.
By contrast, a theory that attends to the novel’s immanent critique would nec-
essarily focus on the gap between literary language and discourse, locating the
possibility of critique not in a form that most approximates ordinary discourse but
in a form of its own, the dynamic plurivocity of aesthetic thought in motion. The
novel’s conceptuality is neither linear nor logical but contrastive and accretive;
when novels think they do not iterate evaluative judgments (child labor is bad,
patriarchy sucks) but mobilize ideas in sensuous, plastic synthesis (the problem of
child labor is inseparable from first-person narration and bildungsroman plotting).
This special mode of conceptuality inheres in the novel’s assembly of sometimes
complementary, sometimes contrastive strata of representation; the novel idea is
the multifaceted problem talking out of both sides of the mouth. Not univocal, not
propositional, not thetic, the novel as critique is essentially thought on the move, the
restless, spastic generativity of conceptuality riven by negation of dialecticity itself.
2
The Marxist historian Moishe Postone elaborated a Hegelian philosophy of critique that he saw
Marx nascently practicing and that can be usefully extended to our discussion of aesthetics:
“The existing, in other words, must be grasped in its own terms in a way that encompasses the
possibility of its own critique: the critique must be able to show that the nature of its social
context is such that this context generates the possibility of a critical stance towards itself. It
follows, then, that an immanent social critique must show that its object, the social whole of
which it is a part, is not a unitary whole” (87–88).
production, not the archive of its failures to referentially register the extant world, but
the mirroring of literature’s own critique, the full dialectic of keen departure from
context and supple utopian pursuits. Marxism shares the novel’s own practice of
critique, the novel’s own utopian impulses, the novel’s own project to reimagine
the social spaces of lived reality, and it is this commonality that forever justifies
Jameson’s claim for Marxism as “the untranscendable horizon” (Political Uncon-
scious 20) of novel reading.
To connect the Marxist practice of immanent critique to a theory or practice of
the aesthetic, let us remark the indispensable importance of form to Marxism’s own
methods of analysis and, indeed, the formalism of Marx’s critical procedure, which
commends formalism in our literary criticism too. What distinguished Marx’s
critique of political economy from the erudite discipline that was its object was
intense focus on form. Labor theory predates Marx; formalist analysis of value,
of commodities, of capital does not. Empirical analysis of exploitation and con-
tradiction predates Marx; formalist analysis of capitalism’s drive to sublate the
contradictions it precipitates does not. Quasi-philosophical discernment of the
intellective paradoxes of credit predates Marx; the theory of capitalism as a spe-
cific metaphysic, engendering pervasive new topoi of belief, newly ungrounded
rationality, and newly reversing cause-and-effect does not. Each of these Marxian
conceptual innovations is facilitated by thinking in terms of form; of representation
of, against, and in matter; of structure, agency, and interlocking composites; of
ideations innate in arrangement and order; of Platonic registers and their lapsarian
instantiation. This formalism by which critique sets to work in the world might
provide a portal to the novel as critique, for it suggests that readers might effectively
behold the novel’s immanent critique when the novel is regarded formalistically
and that novels might be working at critique when they are contriving the con-
sistency of their own form and theorizing the consistency of social forms.
Formalist regard is pivotal in Macherey, for whom the formal effect of the novel,
strictly speaking, is the staging of a dynamic confrontation among literary ele-
ments (plot, point of view, imagery, setting) always producing the effect of con-
flict, imbalance, partiality, incompletion; in turn, this effect reveals the inherently
ideological perception of reality (136). Distinguishing between “knowledge” and
“a certain kind of knowing,” he emphasizes that the work is “not an instrument of
knowledge . . . it is an indispensable revelation, a revealer, and it is criticism which
helps us decipher these images in the mirror” (136). In disarticulating the novel
from univocal speech, Macherey heightens the work of criticism; instead of reit-
erating the novel’s iterations, the critic receives the novel’s revelations, above all its
“certain way of knowing” the truth of inevitable mediation. Novels reveal medi-
ation as social fact, reveal the partiality of every given social formation materially,
not just in the ideality of its representation. This ubiquity and ineluctability of
mediation is suppressed by all those projects, left and right, that would seek
coherent amplitude of the social field, a unity and groundedness and naturalness
of relations. In this way, underscoring the mediated quality of sociality as such and
acceding to this truth is the ultimate gesture of building a different kind of world,
for it reaches toward what would be possible when the world’s architectures and
infrastructures and founding laws cease comporting as grounded.
These formal insights echo and anticipate others in Marxist literary theory.
Before Macherey, Lukács tendered a theory of the novel whose formalism has often
remained latent in the reception of his work. Although frequently cited in autho-
rizing the demand that the novel depict social totality, Lukács had rather more
precisely defined the novel as “thinking in terms of” or “operating a sense of”
totality.3 This “sense” directly contrasts any phenomenal experience, in which
totality is not available as a referent. The novel is a kind of thinking concerned with
a problem, both of which exceed the parameters of experience.4 Across Lukács’s
long career, his prescriptions and judgments of the novel indicate the formal con-
stituents of this thinking, from the “architectural self-consciousness” he invokes
in Theory of the Novel to the integral, “paradoxical fusion of heterogeneous and
discrete components into an organic whole which is abolished again and again,”
the “mutual determination” of narration, reportage and portrayal, character and
plot, detail and meaning that he ordains in Essays on Realism and Writer and Critic.
In missing Lukács’s emphasis on the novel as a specific “abstraction,” we miss the
affinities he educes between the novel and theoretical perspicacity, we miss the
theory proper to the novel.5 And in missing the novel as theory, we miss its faculty
for mediating conceptual and social problems, problems of totalization, of world
making and world projecting, of social consistency, and in turn its utopian faculty
for shaping worlds in general. We miss the novel as critique.
Lukács’s Theory of the Novel finds its late twentieth-century refiguration in Jame-
son’s The Political Unconscious, which remains the unsurpassed program for reading
procedures that would, through their basis in Marxism as a “genuine philosophy of
history,” discern what he crucially called “the solidarity” of the “social and cultural
past,” “its polemics and passions, its forms, structures, experiences, and struggles,
with those of the present day” (18). This allusive notion of solidarity is not really
developed in the book but could be a beautiful alternative to the positivist reification of
difference and quarantining of the past, since it would seem to involve both a temporal
surpassing of narrow historicism and a formal appreciation of the novel’s specific
illumination of the conjuncture of aesthetics and politics. Temporally, the longue durée
history of the novel so decisively accompanies the history of capitalism that a mutual
past and mutual present unite the novels of old with the lives of new. Formally, the
kinds of social cohesion and world projecting undertaken by the novel directly
analogize the predicaments, antagonisms, and ungroundedness of politics such that
the novel of the past retains affinities with the socialities of the present, retains the
possibility of aligning in solidarity with the utopian horizon of today’s fights.
However promising this notion of solidarity, the actual readings of novels in
The Political Unconscious tend to show novels preoccupied by the pressing prob-
lems (determination, freedom, ressentiments, etc.) but dogged by their own forms
3
“The novel is the epic of an age in which the extensive totality of life is no longer directly
given . . . yet which still thinks in terms of totality” (Lukács 56). (Der Roman ist die Epopöe
eines Zeitalters, für das die extensive Totalität des Lebens nicht mehr sinnfällig gegeben ist . . .
und das dennoch die Gesinnung zur Totalität hat.)
4
On the novel as the working out of a problem, see Wasser.
5
For more on this, see Bewes.
6
Here I would part with Pheng Cheah’s brilliant recent work What Is a World?, which intrigu-
ingly argues for a more robust philosophical concept of “world,” one that would entail the
necessity that literature is a force of worlding, of world imagining, world mapping, and world
making, whose faculty for effecting change in the extant world stems from its normativity.
Literature critiques the world by opening to what ought to be. Cheah draws upon the Marxian
tradition ambivalently: it provides the ur-model of critical normativity (“the proletarian revo-
lution intervenes in the existing world . . . in order to actualize a higher world”) but it also
classically “deprives literature of any worldly normative force” (10) by emphasizing the deter-
mination of the superstructure by the base. Cheah sees the spatial emphases of contemporary
Marxists like Henri Lefebvre and David Harvey as problematic reinforcements of the existing
world, since he argues that world conceived spatially can only ever be a descriptive category,
whereas world conceived temporally is the portal to normativity. Cheah’s reduction of spatial
theory to the reification of the extant globe overlooks the specific form of the novel in favor of
the specific phenomenality of reading. In prizing temporality as the only condition of agential
world striving, he dismisses that the proper formal constructions of the novel are integral
spatial constructions.
doubtless hinders the development of the theory. If there exists immanent critique
in the novel, then there exist as well, perhaps most of the time, novels that fail at
critique, whether because they lack imagination, lack the minimum norms of
justice, or lack aesthetic consistency. Discerning these lacks must be a different
enterprise from games of gotcha with literature’s complicity; it must risk the
kind of evaluative judgment of the beautiful, the good, the critical, the stuff that
centers literary counterhegemony, and, sadly, the stuff that literary theory too
often forswears and avoids.
To have been critical, theorists of the novel need to resume judgments and
resume the dialectical critical procedure, to read the aesthetic dialectics and
immanent critique in the novel. Since I put no little emphasis on reading spatially
as affording the formalist and utopian dimensions necessary for immanent cri-
tique, on employing reading methods that fathom the spatiality of the dialectic
within criticism but also within literature itself, perhaps in closing I can outline
such a reading: Colson Whitehead’s spatially inventive The Underground Railroad
(2016) demands to be read as immanent critique, despite its embrace by Oprah’s
Book Club and the National Book Award and certainly despite the critical reception
of it as part of an underground-railroad-industrial-complex dedicated to producing
white mythology of white saviors.7 The novel’s core trope of literalizing the his-
torical metaphor of the underground railroad into actual infrastructure—tracks
and trains, locomotives and hand-cranks, hubs and spokes, communication and
ventilation—insistently connects labor and struggle. “Who built it?” the railroad
passengers ask; “Who builds anything in this country?” a railroad agent answers
(67). The black people who dug the tunnels and designed the routes are the black
people who infrastructuralize struggle and survival, are the black people whose
labor is the foundation of the violently accumulated wealth and territory that are
these United States. This trope is laminated into an even bolder idea by the novel’s
temporal logics and temporal confabulations, its frequent dyssynchrony and its
frequent, powerful presentism (present participles, second-person address to an
implied reader, and direct present tense): the labor of struggle, the work to survive
against the work of the nation, is not historical fiction in the past but searingly
ongoing reality in the present. Still yet, the composite presentness of the labor
of struggling and the struggle of laboring is intensified into an extensive social
problem of the nation by the novel’s spatial emphasis (its chapter division of the
narrative by locations, its reservation of imagistic detail for setting, its fictifying
disorientations and dislocations among north and south, its deterritorialization of
“northness”). And this sweeping, implicative gathering of the past into the present,
the South into the North, the fight for survival and the wages of work, attains even
more purchase on the general state of things through the novel’s unflinching third-
person narration, so oblique to the testimonials and multifocal first persons of the
literary tradition the text otherwise engages. With the syncretism of its formal
elements, The Underground Railroad intones that the general history of America is
not just the ongoingness of racial oppression but also the grace of striving. Cru-
cially, there is more to this critical insight than the negative pole of diagnosis; the
7
Schulz makes this argument in strong terms.
novel infrastructures of the dialectic also furnish the projective synthesis of a utopian
pole. In its refusal to conclude in a promised land, in its relentless destabilization of
place, in its river of time, The Underground Railroad contours a living movement,
destination anywhere, rooted in labor as the path of living, that is the only way to get
from this particular dispensation of social antagonism out to a new deal.
Granting the novel the faculty of critique might dispel the false dichotomy
posited by postcritique between critiquing literature and loving it. It might fully
esteem the special kind of thinking, the special kind of world making and world
interpreting, that novels achieve. It might forge new links between the study of
literature and the study of social existence, building new bridges for imaginative
rebuilding. And wouldn’t that be good?
* * *
anna kornbluh is associate professor and associate head of English at the University
of Illinois at Chicago. She is the author of Realizing Capital (2014) and is currently com-
pleting a manuscript titled “The Order of Forms: Realism, Formalism, and Social Space.”
She helped to found two scholarly cooperatives, InterCcECT (the Inter Chicago Circle for
Experimental Critical Theory) and the V21 Collective (Victorian studies for the twenty-first
century).
Works Cited
Bewes, Timothy. “Reading with the Grain: A New World in Literary Criticism.” Differences:
A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies 21.3 (2010): 1–33.
Bloch, Ernst. The Utopian Function of Art and Literature. Cambridge: MIT P, 1989.
Brown, Nicholas. “One, Two, Many Ends of Literature.” Mediations 24.2 (2009) < http://www
.mediationsjournal.org/articles/one-two-many-ends-of-literature > .
Cheah, Pheng. What Is a World? On Postcolonial Literature as World Literature. Durham: Duke
UP, 2016.
Levine, Caroline. Forms: Whole, Rhythm, Hierarchy, Network. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2015.
Postone, Moishe. Time, Labor, and Social Domination. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996.
Said, Edward. The World, the Text, and the Critic. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1973.
Schulz, Kathyrn. “The Perilous Lure of the Underground Railroad.” New Yorker 22
Aug. 2016 < http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/08/22/the-perilous-lure-
of-the-underground-railroad > .
Wasser, Audrey. The Work of Difference. New York: Fordham UP, 2016.