Prof: This lecture,
I think, starts with a series
of preliminaries.
 
The technical term for
preliminaries of this kind in
literary study is
"prolepsis"--
that is to say,
the form of anticipation which,
in a certain sense,
covers what will be talked
about later.
 
They are prolepses of this kind.
 
First, I wanted to say that in
entering upon the phase of this
course which concerns a series
of particular identities as
perspectives,
as points of departure,
we're still thinking about the
literary text;
and, of course,
in thinking about identity
itself,
we come upon a form of critical
endeavor which is,
in practical terms,
incredibly rich and productive.
 
It is simply amazing how,
as Jonathan Culler once put it,
"reading as a woman,"
or reading as an
African-American,
or reading as any of the other
sort of identity that we're
going to be talking about--
it's simply amazing how this
kind of reading,
if it's done alertly,
transforms everything.
That is to say,
it has an incredible practical
payoff.
 
Last time in the context of the
New Historicism,
Stephen Greenblatt's brilliant
anecdote begins with Queen
Elizabeth saying,
"I am Richard II,
know you not that?"
 
Well, Stephen Greenblatt isn't
concerned with investigating a
pronouncement of that sort from
the standpoint of feminist
criticism,
or indeed from the standpoint
of something we'll be taking up
later on--
gender theory;
but still, it's rather an
amazing thing for Queen
Elizabeth to say,
isn't it?
 
It suggests really that it's,
after all,
remarkable that she,
a woman, would find herself in
a position not so much needing
to endure the kind of suffering
and peril that her own sex has
traditionally endured but rather
potentially enduring the
suffering and peril that one
would experience in the
masculine gender position,
made perhaps even more
interesting and complicated by
the fact that Elizabeth knows
perfectly well that despite the
rarity of her being Richard II,
it's nevertheless not a unique
position.
 
She has subjected
>
Mary Queen of Scots to
precisely that position.
She has deposed and beheaded
her, ultimately,
in just the way that she fears
the Earl of Essex will depose
and behead her.
 
So the way in which this
remark, "I am Richard II,
know you not that?"--so
easily commandeered and made use
of from the standpoint of the
New Historicism--
can come to life in a
completely different way when we
think about it as a question of
a gendered experience is,
I think, in itself a
fascinating one.
Now at the end of the last
lecture, by way of further
preliminary, I told a little
fib.
I said that there were no women
in Tony the Tow Truck,
and of course in your prose
text of it--
the one that you've been
clutching to your bosom
feverishly for the entire
semester--
there are no women.
 
There are just guys talking.
 
However, if to the prose text,
and I've told you about these,
you add the illustrations--this
[gestures to board]
is one of them,
roughly speaking,
and I did it from memory--
if you add the illustrations,
you'll have to realize that
it's not just the cars.
You see the little smiles on
the faces of the houses there:
it's not just the cars that are
happy about what's going on when
Bumpy finally comes along and
pushes Tony,
but it's the houses in the
background which have been
expressing disapproval at the
reactions of Neato and Speedy to
the predicament.
 
There are big frowns on the
faces of those houses in those
illustrations,
 
houses that now express beaming
approval when the morally
correct thing is done.
 
Now in the Victorian
period--and in a certain sense I
think Tony the Tow Truck
in this regard harkens back
to the Victorian period--
there was a poet named Coventry
Patmore who,
actually a rather good poet,
became notorious,
however, in the feminist
tradition for having written a
long poem in which he describes
woman as "the angel in the
house."
You're probably familiar with
that expression,
and it's an idea which is also,
I think,
embodied in a monumental book
of some twenty-five years ago by
Ann Douglas called The
Feminization of American
Culture.
The idea is that moral and
aesthetic and cultural values
are somehow or another in the
hands of women in the drawing
room,
at the tea table,
dictating to the
agencies of society--
all of which are strictly male
prerogatives--
what a proper ethical sense of
things ought to be.
 
In other words,
the role of the angel in the
house is not just to wash the
dishes and take care of the
kids, although that's a big part
of it.
The role of the angel in the
house is also to adjudicate the
moral aspect of life at the
domestic level,
and that's exactly what these
houses,
obviously inhabited by
angels--how else could they be
smiling and frowning?--
that's what these houses are
doing.
 
So it is the case after all
that there are women in Tony
the Tow Truck.
All right.
Now, as I say,
this moment is not exactly a
crossroads in our syllabus.
 
It's not like moving from
language to the psyche to the
social, because obviously we're
still very much in the social.
In fact, it's not even as
though we haven't hitherto
encountered the notion of
perspective.
Obviously, we have in all sorts
of ways,
but particularly in the work of
Bakhtin or Jameson,
we're introduced to the way in
which class conflict--
that is to say,
being of a certain class,
therefore having an
identity--gets itself expressed
in literary form dialogically
and gets itself expressed either
as the expression of conflict
between or among classes or as a
more cacophonous and yet,
at the same time,
very frequently harmonious
chorus of voices of the sort
that--
in notions of
"carnivalization"
and other such notions--
one finds in Bakhtin.
 
In other words,
the way in which the language
of a text,
the language of a narrative or
of a poem or of a play gets
itself expressed,
is already, as we have
encountered it,
a question of perspective.
 
That is to say,
it needs to be read with
notions of identity,
in this case notions of class
identity, in mind if it's to be
understood.
Well, what's also interesting,
though,
about turning to questions of
identity is that perhaps more
sharply now than hitherto--
although I have been at pains
to point out certain moments in
the syllabus in which one really
does arrive at a crossroads,
and you simply can't take both
paths--
nevertheless,
within the context of thinking
about identity in these ways as
literary theory,
we begin to feel an increased
competitiveness among
perspectives.
I'm going to be pointing this
out from time to time in the
sequence of lectures that we now
undertake,
but from the very beginning
there is a sense of actually a
competition which is in some
ways unresolved to this day--
for example,
between the feminist and the
Marxist perspective.
 
That is to say:
what is the underlying
determination of identity and
consciousness?
Is it class or gender,
just for example?
This is not a new topic.
 
This isn't a topic that we
stumble on today as a result of
some belated sophistication we
have achieved.
Listen to Virginia Woolf on
page 600 of A Room of One's
Own where she says,
top of the left-hand column:
For genius like Shakespeare's
is not born among labouring,
uneducated, servile people.
 
It was not born in England
among the Saxons and the
Britons.
 
It is not born today among the
working classes.
How, then, could it have been
born among women whose work
began,
according to Professor
Trevelyan, almost before they
were out of the nursery,
who were forced to it by their
parents and held to it by all
the power of law and custom?
 
Yet genius of a sort must have
existed among women as it must
have existed among the working
classes.
Now in a way,
Woolf is pulling her punches
here.
 
She is not saying class has
priority over gender,
nor is she saying gender has
priority over class,
if we're to understand the
history of the oppression of
women or the history of the
limits on the forms of women's
expression.
 
She's pulling her punches,
and yet at the same time I
think we can see a point of view
in Woolf's Room of One's Own
which is,
after all, rather surprising.
Think of the title.
 
Think of the later title of a
tract in some ways similar about
the possible scope for
contemporary activity for women,
Three Guineas.
 
These titles are grounded
in material circumstances.
Woolf stands before her
audience, her Oxbridge audience
of women,
and says all she really has to
say is just this one thing:
if you're going to expect to
get anything done in the way of
writing or in the way of any
other activity that's genuinely
independent of patriarchal
limitation,
you've really got to have 500
pounds a year and a room of your
own.
That's all she really says she
has to say.
In fact, as you read through
the six chapters of A Room of
One's Own, you find
that,
as if on an elastic band after
the extraordinary range of
impressionist thinking that each
chapter manifests,
she is pulled back to this one
particular--
as she sees it--necessary
practical precondition,
a material precondition.
 
If you want to get anything
done--you're not Jane Austen,
you're not a genius sitting in
your parlor whisking your
novel-in-progress under a piece
of blotting paper every time a
servant comes in to the room,
you're not like that--you
really do need today the
independence of having 500
pounds and a room of your own.
 
In other words,
I think one could show that
even in A Room of One's
Own--
which is, if not the greatest,
certainly the most eloquent
feminist treatise on the
conditions of women's writing
ever written--
one could show that even in
that, there is a certain
priority given to the
perspective of class,
as opposed to the perspective
of gender.
 
Gender will continue to be
conditioned by the effects of
money and power if in fact
something isn't done--
let's face it--to redistribute
money and power.
This is a perspective which,
by the way,
is even clearer in Three
Guineas and suggests that
despite its main agenda,
which is a feminist one--that
underlying that there is a sense
of the priority of class.
These sorts of tensions
continue to haunt not just
feminist criticism,
but other forms of criticism
having to do with other forms of
identity really to this day.
Conferences featuring a variety
of identity perspectives very
typically develop into debates
on precisely this issue,
and the one-ups-persons of
conferences of this kind are
always the ones who somehow get
in the last word and say,
"You're all naļve.
 
You suppose that this is the
basic issue,
but there's an underlying issue
which is the basic issue,
and that's the one that,
I'm going to demonstrate,
must absolutely prevail."
 
It's not necessarily always the
Marxist card which is played in
this context,
although it frequently is.
It could be some other card,
but it's always a card played.
It's always the last word at
the conference which makes
everybody go away and say,
"Oh.
I thought this was about women.
 
Oh, dear.
 
It must be about something
else."
We will have to come back to
that because in a way,
the material we cover today and
the way that we're enabled to
discuss it by its own nature is
something that calls for another
lecture and a lecture that we
will actually provide.
There's a very real sense,
as I hope to show by the end of
the lecture,
in which traditional--I call
this "classical feminist
criticism"--
in which traditional or
classical feminist criticism
needs to be supplemented,
perhaps in the Derridean sense,
by something more,
which is gender theory.
As I say, at the end of the
lecture I'll try to explain what
that might entail,
and then come back to it when
we discuss Judith Butler and
Michel Foucault a few lectures
from now.
 
All right.
 
So A Room of One's Own
is an absolutely amazing
tour de force.
 
It's actually one of my
favorite books.
I read it like a novel,
and in many ways it is a novel.
I think immediately that that
might give us pause because if
Charlotte Brontė
is to be called to task for
tendentiousness--
that is to say,
for writing from the standpoint
of complaint,
of perceived oppression;
and if Charlotte Brontė's
tendentiousness gets in the way
of the full expression of what
she has to say--
which is to say,
the unfolding of a novel;
and if as Virginia Woolf,
I think, actually rightly
remarks,
at least from an aesthetic
point of view,
we wonder why on earth Grace
Pool suddenly appears after
Jane's diatribe about wishing
that she could travel and
wishing that her horizons had
been broadened,
that somehow,
Virginia Woolf says,
Grace Pool is out of place and
there's been a rift in the
narrative fabric:
if this criticism of Charlotte
Brontė is fair,
and we'll be coming back to it
in other contexts,
then of course it could be
turned against the choice of
narrative style,
of narrative approach,
in A Room of One's Own
itself.
 
This, I suppose,
could only strike you
forcefully if you read the whole
of A Room of One's Own,
all six chapters,
which I urge you to do because
it's so much fun.
 
If you read the whole of A
Room of One's Own,
you'd say,
"Well, gee.
This is sort of a novel,
too."
The speaker says, "Oh,
call me anybody you like,"
not unlike Melville's speaker
saying,
"Call me Ishmael."
 
You can call me Mary Beton.
 
You can call me Mary Seton,
call me Mary Carmichael.
It doesn't really matter,
but I've had certain
adventures.
 
At least that person speaking
has had certain adventures which
are fictitious,
or at least I reserve the right
to have you suppose that they
are fictitious.
In other words,
this is a narrative that moves
quite by design in the world of
fiction.
In other words,
Virginia Woolf is saying it
really isn't true,
as she tells us in the first
chapter,
that she, Mary Beton,
after sitting at the river
thinking,
wondering what on earth she's
going to tell these young ladies
about women and fiction--
as she's been thinking about
that, finally she gets a little
idea.
It's like pulling a bit of a
fish out of the river,
and the fish starts swimming
around in her head.
She becomes quite excited and
she walks away across the grass.
At that point up arises a
beadle, a formidable person
wearing Oxonian gowns and
pointing at the gravel path
where she,
as an unauthorized woman,
should be walking,
as the grass is the province
only for the men enrolled in the
university;
and then she has repeated
encounters of that kind.
She goes to the library
unthinkingly,
only to be told by an elderly
wraithlike gentleman that since
she's a woman she needs a letter
of introduction to get in.
And so her day,
her fictitious day of thinking
about what on earth she should
say to these young women about
women and fiction,
begins, somewhat unpleasantly
for her character,
as a presented fiction.
In other words,
A Room of One's Own is,
in a sense, a novel.
 
It continues with a very
pleasant lunch that she has.
She's been invited to the
campus as a distinguished
writer.
 
It's okay to be a woman who is
a novelist as long as you don't
rock the boat too much.
 
In that regard,
she can have been invited to
such a lunch and has a very
pleasant lunch because it's
provided by men in an atmosphere
which is designed for men.
Then she goes to visit a friend
who is teaching at this
fictitious college.
 
She has dinner with the friend
in that college's dining hall,
and the dinner is extremely
inferior and plain,
and then they go to her rooms
and they start talking about the
conditions in which this college
was built.
A bunch of women in the
nineteenth century did all they
could do to raise 30,000 pounds,
no frills, thank you very much.
None of them had any money.
 
There were no major donations
and so the grass never gets cut,
the brick is plain and
unadorned, and that's the way
life is in this particular
women's college.
The next day she goes to the
library because she decides
she's really got to find out
something about what people
think of women;
and so, what is a woman?
I don't know so I'd better look
it up in the library,
she thinks.
 
She finds out that hundreds and
hundreds and hundreds of men
have written books about women:
on the inferiority of women,
the moral sensitivity of women,
the lack of physical strength
of women,
on and on and on.
She lists them as items in the
library catalog which actually
are there >
 
in the library catalog--all of
them, of course,
getting themselves expressed in
these hundreds and hundreds of
books about women by men.
 
Well, this is very frustrating
but,
as you can imagine,
it's an occasion for wonderful
satire--
one has to say tendentious
satire, because obviously it's
male-bashing.
My point is that she wouldn't
let Charlotte Brontė
get away with that.
 
Charlotte Brontė
has to suspend her anger,
Virginia Woolf wants to say,
if she's going to get the whole
of what's on her mind expressed.
 
Well, Virginia Woolf,
who sort of doesn't sound very
angry,
but you could well be mistaken
about that--
she's venting her anger in
comic effects--
Virginia Woolf allows herself,
because that really is
the case,
a measure of anger.
 
So it is in that chapter.
 
Then she goes home and the rest
of A Room of One's Own
takes place in her home.
 
She's in her study pulling
books off the shelf of her
library, and this is more or
less chronological.
It starts with a time when she
looks on the shelf where the
women writers ought to be and
there aren't any women writers,
and then later,
yes, there are women writers,
there are quite a few novelists.
 
Then later in the twentieth
century,
women writers get a little bit
more scope for their activity,
and as she passes all of this
in review,
we continue to get her
reflections on the state of
literary possibility for women
in literary history.
That's the structure of A
Room of One's Own overall
and it is within this structure,
which is an impressionistic and
narrative,
undoubtedly novelistic
structure--there are precedents
for it.
Oscar Wilde's Portrait of
Mr.
W.
 
H.
 
is one in particular--and
which is,
in a way, itself what it's
talking about:
It is a novella,
and in the context of the
novella, as I say,
there's a certain tension or
contradiction in an author who
is allowing herself tendentious
opinions while denying the right
to have such opinions on the
part of one of her predecessors.
 
As you can imagine,
what she says about Charlotte
Brontė has been
controversial in subsequent
feminist criticism.
 
There are a number of ways in
which feminist critics feel that
Virginia Woolf is misguided or
needs to be supplemented,
and this is one of them.
 
By and large,
feminist critics feel that
Charlotte Brontė,
or any other writer,
has the right to be
tendentious.
We'll have more to say about
Virginia Woolf's criterion of
androgyny, which is not thinking
like either sex,
in part.
 
We'll come back to that,
but most feminist criticism has
felt for a variety of reasons
that androgyny isn't necessarily
the ideal toward which women's
prose ought to be aspiring and
takes Virginia Woolf to task
therefore for having taken this
view of Charlotte Brontė.
 
Now yes, feminist criticism has
taken A Room of One's Own
to task in a variety of
ways,
but at the same time--and I
think this is freely and
handsomely acknowledged by
feminist criticism--
it is amazing--when you read
the whole text,
and even when you read the
excerpts that you have in your
anthology--
it is amazing how completely
Virginia Woolf's arguments
anticipate the subsequent course
of the history of feminist
criticism.
I just want to point out a few
of the ways in which it does.
As Showalter points out,
the first phase of modern
feminist criticism was the kind
of work that primarily paid
attention to men's treatment of
women in fiction.
Mary Ellmann's book of 1968
called Thinking about Women,
Kate Millett's Sexual
Politics in 1970 are both
books which focus primarily on
sexist male novelists whose
demeaning treatment of women is
something that the feminist
perspective needed to bring out.
 
This criticism is superseded in
Elaine Showalter's account by
what she calls,
and prefers,
"gynocriticism"
or "the gynocritics."
Gynocriticism is not so much
concerned with men's treatment
of women in fiction as with the
place of women as writers in
literary history and as
characters--
regardless of whether they are
characters in men's or women's
books in their own right--
in the history of fiction.
In other words,
gynocriticism turns the topic
of feminist criticism in the
late sixties and early seventies
from the history of oppression
by men to the history of a
women's tradition.
 
Now this sense of the unfolding
of things, it seems to me,
is already fully present in
Woolf.
She, too, wants to talk about
the possibilities for women
writers, about the need for
women writers to feel that
they're not alone.
 
Above all at the same time,
however,
she frames this emphasis on the
woman's perspective with the
sort of trenchant,
frequently satirical
observations about men's
treatment of women and men's way
of demeaning women and keeping
them in their place--
as, for example,
all the men,
most of them professors,
who wrote books about women,
as she discovered in the
British library,
do.
 
All of this is very much in the
tradition of that first phase of
feminist criticism that
Showalter identifies with
Ellmann and Millett and others
of that generation.
So the capaciousness of Woolf's
approach in one sense can be
understood as precisely her
ability to bridge both sorts of
modern tradition--
no longer chronological as
Showalter presents them as
being,
correctly--but rather as a kind
of simultaneity in which the
emphasis on men's
marginalization of women and the
emphasis on women's
consciousness and traditions can
be set forth at the same time.
 
Now also in Virginia Woolf
there is what--
Since the publication of the
fascinating book by Sandra
Gilbert and Susan Gubar called
The Madwoman in the Attic--
this is also an allusion to
Jane Eyre,
you remember Bertha,
the madwoman in the attic of
Jane Eyre--
since the publication of
The Madwoman in the Attic,
feminist criticism has
talked about the madwoman
thesis: the idea,
in other words,
that because they could not
openly express themselves
creatively as writers or as
artists of other kinds,
women were forced to channel
their creativity into
subversive,
devious and perhaps
psychologically self-destructive
forms,
as in, for example,
Charlotte Perkins Gilman's
The Yellow Wallpaper.
You find Woolf already on page
600--
just actually below the passage
about class and gender that I
read before--
you find her touching on this
madwoman theme long before
Gilbert and Gubar.
She says: When,
however, one reads of a witch
being ducked,
of a woman possessed by devils,
of a wise woman selling herbs,
[and then of course she adds]
and even of a very remarkable
man who had a motherā€¦
There, in other words,
one strongly suspects that
there is a person whose
creativity has been oppressed
and unfortunately channeled in
unsocial or antisocial
directions.
 
This, as I say,
is a tradition that's
sustained.
 
It still exists in Showalter.
 
In her gynocritical
perspective--that is to say,
her insistence on our
registering, chronicling,
and becoming familiar as
scholars with the history of
women as well as the history of
women's writing--
the recognition of such forms
of repression as witchcraft,
as madness, as herbalism,
as whatever it might be,
need to be taken into account.
 
Also very much on the mind of
Woolf already,
as it still is particularly for
Showalter because this is
Showalter's understanding of the
task of gynocriticism,
is the notion that one needs a
tradition,
that one of the great
difficulties and shortcomings
facing the woman's writer is
that,
yes, there are a few
greats--the same ones always
named,
Austen, the Brontės,
George Eliot--
but there is not a sense of an
ongoing tradition,
of a developing tradition
within which one could write;
so that Woolf on page 606,
the right-hand column,
talks about "the man's
sentence,"
the difficulty of coming to
terms with not having,
not just a room of one's own,
but a language of one's own.
 
This is toward the top of the
right-hand column:
"Perhaps the first thing
she would find,
setting pen to paper,
was that there was no common
sentence ready for her
use."
All the literary models,
all the models of novelistic
prose--most of them,
in any case,
are engendered male;
because the atmosphere of
writing--and this is a point
that we'll be getting to soon--
the very fact of writing is
something that we have to
understand as having a male
stamp on it.
Further down in the right-hand
column:
That is a man's sentence [she's
just quoted a long sentence];
behind it one can see Johnson,
Gibbon and the rest."
It was a sentence that was
unsuited for a woman's use.
Charlotte Brontė,
with all her splendid gift for
prose, stumbled and fell with
that clumsy weapon in her hands.
George Eliot committed
atrocities with it that beggar
description.
 
Jane Austen looked at it and
laughed at it and devised a
perfectly natural,
shapely sentence proper for her
own use and never departed from
it.
Thus, with less genius for
writing than Charlotte
Brontė, she got infinitely
more said.
By the way, this is disputable
because certainly it's possible
to understand Jane Austen's
prose style as emerging from the
work of Samuel Johnson and
Samuel Richardson,
in particular,
so it is disputable.
At the same time,
Woolf's point is that Austen
was able to shake herself free
from this terrible problem of
wanting to say something but
finding that one doesn't have
one's own language,
a language suitable to--
appropriated by and for and as
one's identity--
for saying it.
 
"So I want to write as a
woman,
I want to say the things that a
woman wants to say,
but all I've got to say it with
is a man's sentence."
That's Woolf's point,
and of course it has many and
long ramifications.
 
I'm holding at bay the
criticism of a great deal of
this that has to be leveled at
it by feminist criticism and
gender theory roughly since
1980,
but in the meantime the
ramifications are interesting
and they are reinforced by the
theoretically very sophisticated
wing of feminist criticism that
we call French feminism.
Some of you may know the work
of Luce Irigaray and Helene
Cixous.
 
Writers of this kind insist
that there is such a thing as
women's language.
 
Women write not just with their
heads and their phalluses but
with their whole bodies.
 
Women don't write carefully
constructed periodic sentences.
Women write ongoing paratactic,
impressionist,
digressive, ad hoc
sentences: sentences without
ego--
being without structure more or
less corresponding to being
without ego.
We'll come back to this in a
minute in Showalter,
but in the meantime French
feminism was willing to settle
on and for an idea of women's
writing and,
implicitly behind this idea,
an idea of what a woman is that
is very easy to identify as
somehow or another
essentializing.
 
Why can't a woman write
a rigorous periodic sentence?
After all, that's the kind of
sentence that Jane Austen did,
in fact, write.
 
In a whole variety of ways that
one might think of,
why can't a woman,
if she is to be free to be
whatever she wants to be,
write a sentence which isn't
necessarily of this gendered
feminine sort?
Why does women's writing,
in other words,
have to be women's
writing?
It seems to me that it is
French feminism and the possible
critique of French feminism that
Virginia Woolf is anticipating
when she embarks on this
perilous idea of androgyny,
of the kind of mind that needs
to be both male and female and
that needs to write in a way
that Virginia Woolf says is
actually very sexy,
precisely in the moment when
one is not thinking about one's
sex--
the moment, in other words,
when there is no longer a
question of the man's sentence
and the woman's sentence.
I think it has to be said that
although one could emphasize in
A Room of One's Own this
sort of advanced criticism of
French feminism,
and also of the idea that there
is essentially something that we
call woman--
and I'm not through with that
topic--
I think it has to be said that
although we could read A Room
of One's Own in this way,
at the same time we have to
recognize an ambivalence on
Virginia Woolf's part on this
subject.
 
There is a difference between
her insistence that Jane Austen
wrote like a woman,
that she shrugged off the
tyranny of the man's sentence
and wrote her own kind of
sentence,
a woman's sentence--regardless
of whether or not that is
actually in literary historical
terms true--
between the idea,
on the one hand,
that it's important to write
like a woman and the idea,
on the other hand,
that it's important to write
androgynously.
We have to concede,
I think, the impressionistic
form of these lectures that
she's giving.
We have to concede that she
wavers on this point;
that somehow or another it's
very difficult to pin down in
Woolf the question of whether
there is essentially something
to be called "women's
writing";
just as the question behind
that, whether there is
essentially something to be
called "woman,"
or the question on the
contrary--
whether the ideal of all
writing is to shed as fully as
it can precisely its gendered
aspects.
There is perhaps a kind of
creative or rich inconsistency
on this point that,
it should be said,
one also finds and needs to
take into account in reading
A Room of One's Own.
 
All right.
 
Now getting a little closer to
this whole question of beyond
the gynocritical--
because Showalter,
for example,
in talking about the history of
the novel talks about those
three phases:
first the "feminine,"
the phase in which women try
very much to write as though
they were men by deferring
completely to male values in all
the ways that they can;
perhaps introducing a kind of,
again,
"angel in the house"
cultural benevolence and
benignity into perspectives of
men that can be sometimes rather
militaristic and harsh.
 
but nevertheless hiding behind
frequently male names like
Currer Bell,
Acton Bell, George Eliot,
and so on,
and not really entering into
questions of the place of women
in society.
Showalter then says this is a
phase supplanted by a feminist
moment in the history of the
novel in which novels like the
late work of Mrs.
 
Gaskell, for example,
and other such novels become
tendentious, and the place and
role of women becomes the
dominant theme of novels of this
kind.
By the way, this takes Woolf's
critique of Charlotte
Brontė a little bit out of
chronology,
because presumably Charlotte
Brontė belongs to what
Showalter is calling "the
feminine phase"
in the history of the novel,
and so it's interesting that
Woolf finds a kind of
proto-feminism,
damaging to the texture of
Jane Eyre,
already in Charlotte
Brontė's novel.
Then finally what Elaine
Showalter likes best:
the supplanting of the feminist
novel--
because Elaine Showalter,
too, is nervous about the
tendentiousness of fiction--
the supplanting of that by what
she calls "the female
novel," which is the novel
that simply takes for granted
the authenticity and legitimacy
of the woman's point of view,
writes from that point of view
but,
as in Virginia Woolf,
having shed or shaken off the
elements of anger or adversary
consciousness that earlier
novels had typically manifested.
This history of the novel is
very similar to what Showalter
is doing with her sense of the
history of recent feminist
criticism.
 
That's in two phases:
first the feminist,
as she calls it,
when the treatment of women by
men in fiction is the main
focus;
and then the gynocritical,
which is the appropriation for
women of a literary tradition.
 
Showalter is at pains to point
out that much of the most
important work of recent
feminist scholarship,
the feminist scholarship of the
1970s,
is in simply the unearthing of
and expanding of a canon of
women's writing not exclusively
novelistic,
because there had been a time
when the novel was sort of half
conceded to women as a possible
outlet for their writing.
But this concession was
accompanied by the sovereign
assertion that they couldn't
write poetry and plays,
and so an expansion of the
canon such that all forms of
writing are available and made
visible and recognized as
actually existing in a
tradition--
so that we can trace women's
writing,
as Showalter puts it,
from decade to decade and not
from great book to great book,
so that there really is a
tradition comparable to the male
tradition that one can think
about,
think within,
and draw on as a creative
writer oneself,
So both Showalter's history of
the novel and her history of
modern feminist criticism--
or modern women's criticism,
one had better say--
end at the point when it is
still a question of the woman's
perspective.
But this raises a question--and
I've been touching on it in a
variety of ways--
but it really raises the
question that has to haunt
thinking of this kind.
We're going to be encountering
it again and again and again as
we move through other forms of
identity perspective in
criticism and theory.
 
It raises the question whether
if I say that a woman's or
women's writing is of a certain
sort,
if I identify a woman in a way
that I take somehow to be
recognizable--
let's say I identify a woman as
intuitive,
imaginative,
impressionistic,
sensitive,
illogical, opposed to reason,
a refuser of that periodic sort
of subject-predicate sentence
that we associate with men's
writing--
I can appropriate that for
women like the French feminists
and I can identify women in so
doing as such people--
but isn't that simply inverting
what men say in Virginia Woolf's
discoveries in the British
museum in the second chapter of
A Room of One's Own--
isn't that just inverting
all the negative values that men
have attached to women all
along?
Isn't it ultimately to accept
men's opinions of women,
men's ways of saying that
because they are avatars of
reason,
science, logic and all the rest
of it--
isn't a way of saying that the
head is higher than the heart
and accepting,
in other words,
the lower or inferior status of
this organ to this organ even
though one supposes oneself to
have transvalued them and
insisted,
in promoting women's
consciousness,
that the heart is higher than
the head?
One hasn't done anything,
in other words,
to the essential identities
that have governed patriarchal
thought from the beginning.
 
It is precisely this
characterization of women that
has enabled and engendered
patriarchy.
This is where the theoretical
problem arises.
It calls for,
it seems to me,
a sense that somehow or another
one has to put the possibility--
and there's really no other way
to say it,
and this is something that
Judith Butler frequently says
and people who work in the mode
of Judith Butler say--
one has to put the suggestion
that perhaps the best thing one
can say as a feminist is there
is no such thing as a woman;
there is no woman.
 
Now of course this is perilous,
and this is what drives such an
unfortunate wedge in the midst
of feminist thought.
In real life,
in real material existence,
there certainly are women.
 
They are oppressed by laws,
they are oppressed by men,
and their rights and their very
lives need to be protected with
perpetual vigilance.
 
The theoretical idea,
in other words,
that there's no such thing as a
woman is not an idea that can be
sustained in life.
 
Yet at the same time,
the implications of what the
language of identity politics is
always calling
"essentialism,"
the implications of saying
"woman"
is one particular thing--
and it might be better if we
said "woman"
was one particular thing,
but something other than what
men have been saying she was all
along--
but making the problem worse,
saying that "woman"
is one particular thing,
which is just what men have
always said she was--
only it's a good thing,
right, that positions of this
kind are taken up in this way,
despite the fact that they're
absolutely necessary for
practical feminism and for
real-world feminism--
is nevertheless detrimental to
a more sensitive theoretical
understanding of gender and of
the possibilities of gender.
It's all very well to be
intuitive and emotional and
impressionistic,
but one wants to say two things
about that.
 
In the first place,
a guy gets to be that if he
wants to, right?
 
>
 
In the second place,
why does a woman have to
be that, right?
 
It's perfectly clear in both
cases that there are exceptions
which go vastly beyond the
exception that proves the rule.
It's perfectly clear that in
both cases there are
sensibilities across gender that
completely mix up and discredit
these categories,
and so for all of those reasons
there is a problem.
 
Just very quickly I want to
point out, looking at
Showalter's essay,
that this is a bind that
criticism around 1980 really
hasn't gotten past.
Time's up.
 
I'm not going to take the time
to quote passages,
but notice her animus--and
here, in a way,
we go back to the
beginning--her animus against
Marxism and structuralism on the
grounds--
and of course we've said this
ourselves--
on the grounds that both of
them present themselves as
"sciences."
 
Aha!
 
They're gendered male!
 
Marxism and structuralism
aren't anything we want to have
to do with because this is just
Virginia Woolf's beadle raising
its ugly head again and imposing
its will--
through its superior
rationality--on women.
So we don't want any of that.
 
What we want instead is a form
of criticism,
and this is what she says in
effect at the end of the essay
on pages 1385 and 1386,
that evades scientificity;
a form of criticism that
engages with the reality of
texts and of the textual
tradition but doesn't trouble
its head with theoretical
matters.
In other words,
a form that dissociates itself
from the logical,
from overarching structure,
from scientificity.
 
Showalter leaves herself in
this position,
and she leaves feminist
criticism in this position as--
how might one put it?--a
colonized enterprise that can do
anything it likes as long as
it's not reasonable.
If that's the case,
then of course it imposes an
essentializing limit on the
possibilities of feminist
criticism,
just as of course the
characterization of men's
criticism in the way that it's
characterized,
needless to say,
also imposes limits on that.
 
Whether fair and legitimate
limits, or perhaps exaggerated
limits, is open to question.
 
That's not nearly as important
a point as the reminder that
there is a kind of
marginalization of the
possibilities for feminist
criticism involved in saying
that it has to be something
other than the sort of thing
that Marxist and structuralist
paradigms make available.
Okay.
 
Now I think that Henry Louis
Gates,
influenced by Bakhtin,
will have a very interesting
way of coming to terms with this
question of what's available for
a marginalized minority
criticism once it avoids or has
succeeded in avoiding the terms
of the mainstream criticism.
I want you to read Gates' essay
with that particularly in mind.
Then we'll come back with the
question of,
as it were, the future of
feminist criticism,
in a way since 1980,
when we turn to the work of the
gender theorists,
in particular Judith Butler.
