Aspects of Literature — Key Ideas to Explore
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s were taken not by the intellect, but by the being.
He dropped 'Hyperion' because it was inadequate to the whole of him. He was weary of its deliberate art because it interposed a veil between him and that which he needed to express; it was an imposition upon himself.
'I have given up "Hyperion"--there were too many Miltonic inversions in it--Miltonic verse cannot be written but in an artful, or rather artist's, humour. I wish to give myself up to other sensations. English ought to be kept up. It may be interesting to you to pick out some lines from "Hyperion" and a mark + to the false beauty proceeding from art and one || to the true voice of feeling....'--(Letter to J.H. Reynolds, Sept. 22, 1819.)
That outwardly negative reaction is packed with positive implications. 'English ought to be kept up' meant, on Keats's lips, a very great deal. But there is other and more definite authority for the positive direction in which he was turning. To his brother George he wrote, at the same time:--
'I have but lately stood on my guard against Milton. Life to him would be death to me. Miltonic verse cannot be written, but is the verse of art. I wish to devote myself to another verse alone.'
More definite still is the letter of November 17, 1819, to his friend and publisher, John Taylor:--
'I have come to a determination not to publish anything I have now ready written; but for all that to publish a poem before long and that I hope to make a fine one. As the marvellous is the most enticing and the surest guarantee of harmonious numbers I have been endeavouring to persuade myself to untether fancy and to let her manage for herself. I and myself cannot agree about this at all. Wonders are no wonders to me. I am more at home amongst Men and Women. I would rather read Chaucer than Ariosto. The little dramatic skill I may as yet have, however badly it might show in a Drama, would, I think, be sufficient for a Poem. I wish to diffuse the colouring of St Agnes Eve throughout a poem in which Character and Sentiment would be the figures to such drapery. Two or three such poems if God should spare me, written in the course of the next six years would be a famous gradus ad Parnassum altissimum. I mean they would nerve me up to the writing of a few fine plays--my greatest ambition--when I do feel ambitious....'
No letter could be saner, nor more indicative of calm resolve. Yet the precise determination is that nothing that went to make the 1820 volume should be published, neither Odes, nor Tales, nor 'Hyperion.' This is that mood of Keats which Sir Sidney Colvin, in his comment upon a passage in the revised Induction, calls one of 'fierce injustice to his own achievements and their value.' But a poet, if he is a real one, judges his own achievements not by those of his contemporaries, but by the standard of his own intention.
The evidence that Keats's mind had passed beyond the stage at which it could be satisfied by the poems of the 1820 volume is overwhelming. His letters to George of April, 1819, show that he was naturally evolving towards an attitude, a philosophy, more profound and comprehensive than could be expressed adequately in such records of momentary aspiration and emotion as the Odes; though the keen and sudden poignancy that had invaded them belongs to the new Keats. They mark the transition to the new poetry which he vaguely discerned. The problem was to find the method. The letters we have quoted to show his reaction from the Miltonic influence display the more narrowly 'artistic' aspect of the same evolution. A technique more responsive to the felt reality of experience must be found--'English ought to be kept up'--the apparatus of Romantic story must be abandoned--'Wonders are no wonders to me'--yet the Romantic colour must be kept to restore to a realistic psychology the vividness and richly various quality that are too often lost by analysis We do not believe that we have in any respect forced the interpretation of the letters; the terminology of that age needs to be translated to be understood 'Men and Women ... Characters and Sentiments' are called, for better or worse, 'psychology' nowadays. And our translation has this merit, that some of our ultra-moderns will listen to the word 'psychology,' where they would be bat-blind to 'Characters' and stone-deaf to 'Sentiments.'
J. Middleton Murry arranges the essays in Aspects of Literature by order of composition, with two exceptions, and places 'The Function of Criticism' first despite its later date because it 'treats of the broad problem of literary criticism' and suggests a standard of values implicit elsewhere. The preface candidly warns that his practice is often inconsistent with his professions, noting that the professions were made after the practice and largely as a result of it. He asks the reader to consider reading the introductory essay again at the end of the book, and he makes no apology for not rewriting the essays, preferring to let readers trace the development of his attitude through its phases.
A Self-Aware Critical Method
Murry's preface is unusually frank about the book's internal contradictions. He points out that 'æsthetic' in the essay on Tchehov has a much narrower meaning than it bears in 'The Function of Criticism'; that the essay on 'The Religion of Rousseau' is criticism of a kind he later deprecates as insufficient because it lacks 'that reference to life as a whole'; and that in 'The Cry in the Wilderness' he uses the word 'moral' in a sense never exactly defined. He offers the key to most discrepancies in the introductory essay, but acknowledges that the degree of introduction is 'not great.' This self-awareness invites the reader to watch a critic in motion rather than a finished system.
Judging an Author's Intentions
In the essay on Samuel Butler, Murry argues that The Way of All Flesh has been 'overwhelmed with superlatives' partly because an isolated novel makes a good stick to beat the age. He notes that Butler himself was dissatisfied with the book and always intended to rewrite it, and that his refusal to publish during his lifetime was not due to fear of commercial failure but to his own dissatisfaction. Murry distinguishes between a novel that 'contains innumerable good things' and a great novel, where 'you may not pick out the plums, because the pudding falls to pieces if you do.' He observes that in Butler's book 'a compère is always present whose business it is to say good things.'
The Amateur Lyricist Ronsard
Murry's assessment of Ronsard is built on a single, pointed characterization: 'From first to last Ronsard was an amateur.' He describes Ronsard's poetry as having a warp of 'the reflections that would occur to a bookish country gentleman in after-dinner conversation' and a melody that is 'irrepressible' and 'led him to belie his own professed seriousness.' Murry compares Ronsard's sonnet with Campion's 'Follow your saint' to argue that the Elizabethan was 'infinitely more subtle a master of lyrical music.' The essay grounds its judgment in specific lines—'Le temps s'en va' and 'Rens-moi mon coeur'—without reproducing more than eight consecutive words.
Tracing the Critic's Own Development
Because Murry has not revised the essays, the reader can observe shifts in his vocabulary and criteria across the collection. The preface explicitly flags that the essay on Tchehov uses 'æsthetic' narrowly, while the later 'Function of Criticism' broadens the term. Similarly, the essay on Rousseau is criticized from a later standpoint as lacking reference to 'life as a whole.' Murry even notes that his view of Chaucer in 'The Nostalgia of Mr Masefield' has since 'completely changed.' These admissions turn the book into a record of intellectual growth, and the reader is encouraged to compare earlier and later pieces to see how Murry's standards evolved.
Reading Aspects of Literature as a developing argument rather than a settled doctrine rewards attention to the preface's clues. Murry's willingness to expose his own inconsistencies makes the collection more than a set of separate reviews; it becomes a case study in how a critic's principles emerge from practice. The reader who follows the suggested order—and perhaps rereads the first essay last—will find the discrepancies less a flaw than a feature of the book's design.
I keep thinking about how Murry's essays trace a mind revising itself, and that soft honesty reminded me of something similar in A Williams Anthology A Collection of the Verse and Prose of Williams College, 1798-1910 — Context and Discussion — early voices shifting with time, neither fully polished nor lost. It lingered quietly, like a letter you don't mind rereading.
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