Category Archives: Secondary reading

Hayden White: “Anomalies of Genre”

The full title of this essay is “Anomalies of Genre: The Utility of Theory and History for the Study of Literary Genres.” Apparently, this essay comes from an issue of New Literary History which was specifically about the utility of theory and history for the study of literary genres, so White doesn’t propose his own theory here. Rather, he overviews and responds to the contributions of the scholars whose work is published in this specific issue, which includes Frederic Jameson. Thus, this is a nice summary of a 2003 issue of New Literary History, but its usefulness for me has really just been that it has pointed me in other interesting directions for my research on “genre theory” (if that’s a thing that exists?).

So, the most useful thing in this summary might be for me to just overview (as White does) the various names that come up in this issue, so that I can go look for their work and read it for myself:

Michael Prince: Apparently, there is a scholar named Ralph Cohen (who I should also look up) who says that “both the notion of (literary) genre and genres themselves appear to be ‘resistant to theory'” (White 597). This is really interesting, and I wonder how Cohen deals with Derrida’s “Law of Genre”? I don’t know how Cohen is defining “theory” here, and I certainly don’t know if Derrida would consider his talk a “theory,” per se…. but I associate Derrida with “Theory” (capital T), so I don’t know what to make of this. Anyway, Michael Prince says that if Cohen is right, then “genre’s resistance to theoretical consideration tells us more about theory than it does about genre itself” (White 597). “For if,” White goes on summarizing Prince…

For if, as everyone seems to agree, genre is an essential element or aspect of literarity, then genre’s resistance to theory implies that theory itself is inimical to literature and should not, therefore, be brought to bear upon literary artwork. Indeed, Prince holds that it may be genre’s resistance to theory that generates the endless task of literary interpretation, which has the role in criticism of mediating not only between literature and life but also between literature and theory as well. (597)

It seems that both Cohen and Prince decide that history is a good alternative to theory in the study of literary genre. If theory doesn’t work, historicize. As White says, “[a] historical treatment is typically seen as an alternative and antidote to the corrosive effects of theory in literary studies” (598). White goes on to say that the “historical approach lets you simply show the ways genre works in different times and places in the development of literature, without having to raise the vexing theoretical question of the value typically assigned to specific genres, various notions of genre, and the idea of a hierarchy of genres in both culture and society at large” (599). This discussion really confuses me. First of all, I don’t understand how “history” and “theory” are two different things. I’m not saying they’re exactly the same thing, but history theorizes and theory historicizes, right? How can one be an “antidote” to the other? They seem mutually constitutive to me… Second of all, all of the great work on the genres of sensation and melodrama that I’ve read seem to both “show the ways genre works in different times and places” AND raise the “theoretical question of the value typically assigned to specific genres” (599). Elaine Hadley’s entire book seems to do both of these things all the time, so I don’t understand the distinction being made here…

I think that the foundational idea that White is trying to gesture at is the idea that genre can somehow be “pure”–which is an idea that has problematic affinities with the notion of racial “purity” and aristocratic “purity.” So… White via Prince via Cohen is trying to say that theory exposes the myth of generic purity, therefore it has nothing else to do? Is that what’s going on here? I still don’t understand… I guess that’s really what Derrida’s “Law of Genre” does–it does identify genre as always already contaminated, and never “pure.” But I don’t see why that realization negates theoretical approaches…???

Moving on, though, I did find a suggestion that the phrase “the law of genre” doesn’t come specifically from Derrida (as I suppose I should have intuited). In Latin, it’s operis lex, and it comes from Horace. It’s a law of generic essence: “It was theory which, in defense of the doctrine of generic purity, ‘forbade’ the mixing of elements from different genres” (White 601). I guess this is why Derrida opens his speech in the way that he does, with the utterances, “Genres are not to be mixed. I will not mix them.” That was Horace’s operis lex–good to know. Someone names Farrell (didn’t catch the first name) says that the essentialism implicit in the law of genre is actually what goaded poets and other writers to mix genres, since the literary folk generally don’t take kindly to being told what to do.

Jerome McGann: Note to self: look up this Jerome McGann essay. It sounds AWESOME!! So I’m going to read it and write a separate post about it. But as a result of summarizing McGann, White muses, “genre theory might very well profit from a move toward something like the performative mode of addressing its object–a move which has enjoyed massive payoffs in the fields of dance, music criticism, and media studies” (608). I just think that’s funny because a few posts ago, I wrote my summary of David Kurnick’s Empty Houses in the form of a play. So there’s that.

Morson: Again, didn’t catch the first name here. White’s summary of this article didn’t interest me as much as his response to it. White attempts to solve a problem that he summarizes in Morson’s work, saying:

One way of dealing with this problem is to view the literary work as the product (in part, of course) of a kind of dialectic of genres, in which what the formalists called the “dominant” of the work is viewed as an attempted synthesis of all generic conventions used to justify the work’s claim to some kind of realism. This approach to the question of genre gets us beyond any necessity to regard certain “paradoxical” aspects of a discourse of genre as indices of a “problem” and allows us to treat them as the solution to the question of why generic conventions seem necessary to the presentation of a worldview in the first place. (611)

I’m interested in this passage because it reminds me of Winifred Hughes’s theory of the “sensation paradox.” For Hughes, the sensation paradox is precisely a mixing of genres: sensation = romance + realism. It’s paradoxical because romance is about the faraway, and realism is about the everyday; romance is about fantasy, realism is about life’s nitty gritty details. Sensation brings them together–and that’s essentially her argument. Of course, she shows how it works differently in the work of each different author she analyzes, but it’s a bit of a one-note argument. In White’s reading, the sensation paradox would be the solution to the problem of us seeing genre distinctions as “necessary to the presentation of a worldview in the first place.” The sensation paradox could be the antidote to overly-stabilized Victorian theories of genre. That’s interesting. I’m not sure if it’s true, but it’s interesting. And it could be true…

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Meditations on Bourdieu’s “Distinction”

Distinction is pretty dense, and it’s based on empirical sociological research done in France, so its methodologies are not immediately applicable to my work on sensation literature. For this reason, I’m not going to write about it in a whole lot of depth right now–I may come back to it after my exam. However, its conclusions and theories are immensely useful to studies of popular culture, so I’m going to reflect on some of the things that initially stood out to me.

Why to people like what they like? What is taste? How is it formed? These are Bourdieu’s main areas of interest in this study. Bourdieu surveys a whole bunch of people from all over France’s socioeconomic spectrum, and because he’s Bourdieu, he finds that–surprise surprise!–social class tends to determine an individual’s taste. Of course, class-based distinctions get reinforced in everyday life, so that social reproduction occurs seamlessly and ideologically. There is definitely such a thing as “working-class” taste for Bourdieu, but the difference for working-class folks is that their sense of taste is subordinate, so their likes and dislikes are constantly getting defined according to dominant classes’ aesthetic preferences: “the working-class ‘aesthetic’ is a dominated ‘aesthetic’ which is constantly obliged to define itself in terms of the dominant aesthetics” (41).

Aesthetic choices, for Bourdieu, create “class fractions” and actively distance people in one class from those in another. People internalize their class-based aesthetic preferences at a very young age, and these preferences end up filtering them into the “appropriate” class-affiliation so that the social status quo can be upheld. This is a great theoretical context for a lot of the Victorian responses to sensation fiction and sensation theater–I’m thinking specifically of the reviews of Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s work that accuse her of merging the “literature of the kitchen” with the “literature of the drawing-room.” When a person encounters aesthetic products from another social class, Bourdieu finds, this person often reacts with disgust or horror–much like many (middle-class) reviewers reacted to sensation fiction.

Because this amorphous concept of “taste” is internalized so early and so rigorously, it’s incredibly hard to change, so “taste” is part of the equation of social mobility that makes “climbing the social ladder,” as it were, incredibly difficult. If you were raised on Budweiser, it’s going to be difficult for you to acclimate to home-brewed artisan beer, for example. If you were raised on McDonald’s and Taco Bell, molecular gastronomy is going to be a hard pill to swallow. If hanging out in your garage, tinkering with the car you bought for $2000 and drinking Budweiser is your idea of a perfect Sunday afternoon, wine-tasting in Napa, followed by light conversation at an organic, local-ingredient juice bar may seem insufferably boring. Okay, enough of the examples.

The point here is that one of these taste-categories has cultural capital, and the other doesn’t. The artisan-beer-drinking, molecular gastronomy-loving, wine-tasting, locally-grown-organic-food-eating, Jane Eyre-reading middle-to-upper class person has access to cultural capital, while the car-fixing, Budweiser-drinking lower-class individual (who doesn’t even get as many compound-adjective descriptors in my characterization here) has less of a taste for the products of cultural capital. However, since the aesthetic preferences of the dominant class tend to, well, dominate those of the lower classes, the Budweiser-drinking person might feel pressured to approximate a “taste” for artisan beer, for fear of appearing vulgar or tasteless. My summary so far has been an odd and socially stereotypical one–and is a bit disjointed from my own experience, suggesting that Bourdieu’s critique may be a bit dated in some ways. I think a lot of this still holds true, but I also think that marketing plays an enormous role in this equation–Budweiser could be marketed in such a way that it could attain the same cache as home-brewed artisan beer (if the marketing campaign was successful enough). And currently, I think that targeted marketing practices have unearthed niche markets that don’t necessarily feel a whole lot of pressure to conform to a standardized version of “upper-class” taste. Or, perhaps a better characterization would be that, currently, standardized versions of “upper-class” taste are based on the eccentricities of niche markets–hence the appeal of the hipster figure? I don’t know–Bourdieu probably talks about all of this in places of Distinction that my skimming didn’t quite reach.

Anyway, I’m interested in the habitus and the definition of taste. So, here’s some definitions:


  • “the propensity and capacity to appropriate (materially or symbolically) a given class of classified, classifying objects or practices” (169)
  • “the generative formula of life-style, a unitary set of distinctive preferences which express the same expressive intention in the specific logic of each of the symbolic sub-spaces, furniture, clothing, language or body hexis” (169)
  • “the practical operator of the transmutation of things into distinct and distinctive signs, of continuous distributions into discontinuous oppositions; it raises the differences inscribed in the physical order of bodies to the symbolic order of significant distinctions” (170)
  • “It transforms objectively classified practices, in which a class condition signifies itself (through taste), into classifying practices, that is, into a symbolic expression of class position, by perceiving them in their mutual relations and in terms of social classificatory schemes” (170)
  • “Through taste, an agent has what he likes because he likes what he has, that is, the properties actually given to him in the distributions and legitimately assigned to him in the classifications” (171)


  • “both the generative principle of objectively classifiable judgments and the system of classification of these practices. It is the relationship between the two capacities which define the habitus, the capacity to produce classifiable practices and works, and the capacity to differentiate and appreciate these practices and products (taste), that the represented social world, i.e., the space of life-styles, is constituted” (165-166)
  • “The habitus is necessarily internalized and converted into a disposition that generates meaningful practices and meaning-giving perceptions; it is a general, transposable disposition which carries out a systematic, universal application–beyond the limits of what has been directly learnt–of the necessity inherent in the learning conditions” (166)
  • “The habitus is not only a structuring structure, which organizes practices and the perception of practices, but also a structured structure: the principle of division into logical classes which organizes the perception of the social world is itself the product of internalization of the division into social classes” (166)

Essentially, the concept of the habitus explains many of the Victorian responses to popular fiction and other popular media, and, as I’ve argued before, it explains the professionalization of many sensational detectives, including Robert Audley, Sherlock Holmes, and even Watson. In fact, I wonder if the Sherlock Holmes/Watson relationship could benefit from a more thorough analysis of how the habitus works in those texts. Something to think about for the future…

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Jacques Derrida: “The Law of Genre”

So, I have not read La Folie du Jour, so I’m going to leave that section of “The Law of Genre” alone and just focus on Derrida’s main points, which I think he lays out in the first part of this talk. The big flashy “wow!” moment for me was Derrida’s “axiomatic question,” where he asks, “can one identify a work of art, of whatever sort, but especially a work of discursive art, if it does not bear the mark of a genre, if it does not signal or mention it or make it remarkable in any way?” (211). This seems to me to be the question he was leading us toward when, at the opening of his lecture, he gave us three utterances: “Genres are not to be mixed. I will not mix genres. I repeat: genres are not to be mixed. I will not mix them” (202). He says that we could have read that first statement, “genres are not to be mixed” as fairly neutral–in other words, here’s a thing that shouldn’t happen, just like eggs whites and parsley are not to be mixed, for whatever reason. Or, we could have read that as a prescriptive command: “Hey you, don’t even think about mixing genres! They are not to be mixed!” Similarly, his second statement, “I will not mix them,” could have been read according to different genre conventions. Again, it could have been a fairly neutral statement: “personally, this is not something I’m going to do, if that’s okay with you.” Or, it could have been read as a promise, a submissive posture in response to the previous command: “Okay, sir, I promise, I won’t mix them, I promise!” The key here is that Derrida did not give us any cues with which to interpret these statements. He left us uncertain of what genre they belonged to. So, we presumably had trouble classifying them, making them mean something, and therefore figuring out what he was trying to say. So, eventually, he asks, can we identify a work of art that has no marker of genre?

So, spoiler alert: Derrida doesn’t particularly believe in things that seem to have clear borders, like genres. So he doesn’t really want to talk about how to put things into genres. Anybody could do that, and besides, there are so many terms, he says, that how could he ever presume to contain their proliferation? It’s impossible. For him the law of genre is “precisely a principle of contamination, a law of impurity, a parasitical economy” (206). This is fairly familiar territory. By now, thanks in part to Derrida, we’re pretty comfortable acknowledging that nothing is just part of a specific genre. For example, in my case of sensation fiction, there is no ontological category called “sensation fiction.” It’s a “parasitical economy” in which the Newgate novel, the Gothic novel, the cheap serial novel, the Silver Fork novel, and a thousand other things all intersect to make a new category. But Derrida does not care about my categories on this level. What he cares about is the “category” that allows (or doesn’t allow) “categories” to be a “category.” Can categories be categorized?

Here he goes: “As with the class itself, the principle of genre is unclassifiable, it tolls the knell of the knell, in other words of classicum, of what permits one to call out orders and to order the manifold within a nomenclature” (208). So, if the death knell dies, who tolls the knell of the knell? If genre classifies members of a set, who classifies the set? As the principle of classification, genre can not itself be classified, so it exceeds itself, and the parts are bigger than the whole. So, part of the law of genre “is the law of abounding, of excess, the law of participation without membership, of contamination, etc., which I mentioned earlier” (210). Genre participates in sets by placing members into sets, but it is not itself a member of a set, so its principle is excess. At this point, Derrida realizes that he’s skirting the edge of genre-theory, and not really intending to go into genre-theory at all (interestingly, that word into treats genre as the container that Derrida characterizes it as being–he wants to talk about what makes the container contain).

Moving on, here’s the part that really fascinates me:

The trait common to these classes of classes is precisely the identifiable recurrence of a common trait by which one recognizes, or should recognize, a membership in a class. There should be a trait upon which one could rely in order to decide that a given textual event, a given “work,” corresponds to a given class (genre, type, mode, form, etc.). And there should be a code enabling one to decide questions of class-membership on the basis of this trait. (210-211)

Okay, so if we’re going to say “this thing is a calico cat,” it should a) be a cat and b) have calico markings. That may have been a bad example, but the point I was trying to make is that the “mark” is a really important word for Derrida, and thinking of animal marking reminds me of that. He goes on about the mark:

…if one is bent on classifying, one should consult a set of identifiable and codifiable traits to determine whether this or that, such a thing or such an event belongs to this set or that class. This may seem trivial. Such a distinctive trait qua mark is however always a priori remarkable. It is always possible that a set–I have compelling reasons for calling this a text, whether it be written or oral–re-marks on this distinctive trait within itself. (211)

First of all, the “trait” that identifies something as “Thing X” is a “mark.” Okay. And we can deduce that marks are remarkable, in the sense that they should be visible enough for us to remark upon. So, a set, or a text, in its very essence, re-marks on its own mark. In other words, it makes its mark visible (is this like the Foucauldian idea of compulsory visibility?), but it also comments upon its own mark. It not only shows its mark, but it says, “hey, look, here’s my mark!” I’m not sure if I’m getting this quite right, but as I’m writing it, it really does remind me of Foucault… (I guess it would be too meta if I tried to “classify” them as both being deconstructionists…).

Derrida uses an example to explain his meaning above a bit more clearly:

A defense speech or newspaper editorial can indicate by means of a mark, even if it is not explicitly designated as such, “Viola! I belong, as anyone may remark, to the type of text called a defense speech or an article of the genre newspaper editorial.” (211)

What interests Derrida, he says, “is that this re-mark–ever possible for every text, for every corpus of traces–is absolutely necessary for and constitutive of what we call art, poetry or literature” (211). Literature needs the re-mark, and the re-mark is what makes literature literature. Is that because literature is inherently self-aware? Is it ALL meta?

Now it gets crazier:

…consider this paradox, consider the irony (which is irreducible to a consciousness or an attitude): this supplementary and distinctive trait, a mark of belonging or inclusion, does not properly pertain to any genre or class. The re-mark of belonging does not belong. It belongs without belonging, and the “without” (or the suffix “-less”) which relates belonging to non-belonging appears only in the timeless time of the blink of an eye. (212)

Said again, another way:

I submit for your consideration the following hypothesis: a text cannot belong to no genre, it cannot be without or less a genre. Every text participates in one or several genres, there is no genreless text; there is always a genre and genres, yet such participation never amounts to belonging. And not because of an abundant overflowing or a free, anarchic and unclassifiable productivity, but because of the trait of participation itself, because of the effect of the code and of the generic mark. Making genre its mark, a text demarcates itself. If remarks of belonging belong without belonging, participate without belonging, then genre-designations cannot be simply part of the corpus. (212)

So, each text has a mark, and that mark marks the text’s genre–which is the thing that makes a text a text. But the mark itself does not belong to the genre, and is only supplementary to the text itself (even though it’s also constitutive). Derrida explains it with the example of novels that announce on their cover that they are novels. For example, I just read a novel (for fun) called The Shoemaker’s Wife, and on the cover, right under the title, it says “A Novel”–just in case I couldn’t tell that it was a novel. This paratextual element–“A Novel”–is a mark. It marks the text as belonging to a genre–“the novel.” It makes the text announce, “Hello! I’m a novel!” However, the mark “A Novel” is not part of the novel. So genre-designations do not themselves belong to the genres they designate. The word or concept “novel” does not belong–along with Middlemarch and Vanity Fair–to the category it signifies. It gets complicated for me, at this point. Since the classificatory principle is itself NOT part of a class, then the thing that makes inclusion possible is itself excluded. The class, therefore, cannot be closed.

Here’s Derrida again:

This axiom of non-closure or non-fulfillment enfolds within itself the condition for the possibility and the impossibility of taxonomy. This inclusion and this exclusion do not remain exterior to one another; they do not exclude each other. They are neither one nor two. They form what I shall call the genre-clause, a clause stating at once the juridical utterance, the precedent-making designation and the law-text, but also the closure, the closing that excludes itself from what it includes (one could speak of a floodgate […] of genre). The clause or floodgate of genre declasses what it allows to be classed. It tolls the knell of genealogy or of genericity, which it however also brings forth to the light of day. Putting to death the very thing that it engenders, it cuts a strange figure; a formless form, it remains nearly invisible, it neither sees the day nor brings itself to light. Without it, neither genre nor literature come to light, but as soon as there is this blinking of an eye, this clause or this floodgate of genre, at the very moment that a genre or a literature is broached, at that very moment, degenerescence has begun, the end begins. (212-213)

Okay, so the genre-clause is the thing I just talked about, I think. It’s the idea that the genre-designation does not belong to the genre that it demarcates, so it is excluded from the principle of inclusion that it makes possible. However, these two things–the genre and the genre-designation–don’t necessarily exclude each other (deconstruction is happening right now, I think). In other words, just because the genre-designator is excluded from the inclusion it constitutes doesn’t mean that genre then doesn’t exist. The genre-designator has made a juridical utterance (“this thing is a novel, that thing isn’t”), but the inevitable constructedness of that utterance doesn’t negate its existence. A thing called “novel” still does exist, even though it’s always already contaminated. However, the genre-clause is about non-closure (if genre doesn’t include the thing that makes it a genre, then it can never be a closed set). Therefore, it “declasses what it allows to be classed” (213). The word “novel” makes it possible to class things as “novels,” but the exclusion of the word “novel” from its own category means that the things in that category can rush through the floodgates of the class called “novel.” So the genre-clause “tolls the knell of genealogy or of genericity” (213), but it also sheds light on genre because it brings these questions to our attention–it causes us to “re-mark” upon the members of the set. So, genre-designators bring members of a set to life: the concept “novel” means that we can see a certain body of texts as “novels.” But, in its inability to close the set and draw a complete line around “things that are novels,” it opens the floodgates (“well, is this thing a novel or not?”) and thereby kills the very thing it brought to life. So, literature cannot exist without genre, but the very moment that we notice the genre-clause or question a genre-designator (which we always do), that moment is the beginning of the end of genre.

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Empty Houses: Theatrical Failure and the Novel

I need to write an in-depth summary of David Kurnick’s argument in this book, but I find it relatively complex, so to start out, I’m going to write a summary in play form.

NANCY ARMSTRONG: (in chorus, with an entire tradition of theorists of the novel) The rise of the novel corresponds with the rise of privacy and interiority. Thus, we can see in 19th-century novels an intense focus on the individual and on the individual’s interior landscape. The novel is about interiority! Look at George Eliot! Henry James! And wow, check out James Joyce!

DAVID KURNICK: You’re forgetting that all of these famous novelists you’re talking about were failed playwrights.

NANCY ARMSTRONG, ET. AL: So what? Interiority doesn’t play well on the stage. Of course they failed as playwrights. It’s the reason they became so good at novel-writing.

DAVID KURNICK: Actually, the very form of theater is about collectivity. No matter how much interiority you want to project on stage, you have to realize that theater is a collaborative enterprise. It takes lots of actors working together, and an entire audience to come watch the play. This is the medium these novelists first chose as their preferred representational form. They wanted to escape interiority, and it shows in their subsequent novels.

EMILY ALLEN: (in chorus, with an emerging tradition of scholars who look at theatrical metaphors in novels) We understand you, David Kurnick. Nineteenth-century novels are all about the theater. Look at all the theater metaphors all over the place. They’re everywhere! Let’s all write entire books on theater metaphors in nineteenth-century novels!! Also, look how many duplicitous characters there are–it’s like they’re all playing a role. Meta-theatricality! Theatrical themes are everywhere! Yay!!

DAVID KURNICK: Sure…. Those are all awesome books you folks wrote. But I have a couple of problems. Why are we always equating duplicitous characters with some kind of theatricality? Why does duplicity = theatricality? That’s not really what I’m going for here. Theatricality, for me, = collectivity. The theatrical space is a collective, collaborative space.

EMILY ALLEN, ET. AL: Okay, great. But however you choose to characterize the novel’s themes of theatricality, they’re ALL. OVER. THE. PLACE, amirite?

DAVID KURNICK: Totally. All over the place. But that’s still not what I’m going to do with this book. I think that we’re doing a little too much of this “theater-as-metaphor” thing. Why is the theater *just* a metaphor for something bigger? Because we marginalize it, that’s why. But guess who didn’t marginalize it? George Eliot, Henry James, William Thackeray, and James Joyce. They all wanted to be playwrights. And it’s not just that their novels use the theater as “metaphors” for something–their novels literally marginalize the sense of interiority and individuality that novel-reading implies and gesture toward a collective theatrical space. Repeatedly. Seriously. Read my book. Therefore, I’m de-thematizing theater and reading these metafictional moments as authorial references to the plays that might have been. They are gestures toward the collective, not *just* metaphors.

ALL: Wow, that’s fascinating.


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The Reading Lesson: Novel Sensations of the 1860s

“Novel Sensations of the 1860s” is chapter 7 of Patrick Brantlinger’s book The Reading Lesson: The Threat of Mass Literacy in Nineteenth-Century British Fiction. His main point in this chapter seems to be that the detective figure of sensation fiction diminishes the authority of the omniscient narrator of realist fiction. He makes some interesting points, and I particularly like how he responds to D.A. Miller’s contention that detective plots install a force of novelistic surveillance that resembles ideology: you can’t ever get outside of its reach. Following Foucault, Miller is obsessed with panoptic vision, so he sees the detective, and by extension, the novel as a whole, as a panoptic seer. Brantlinger points out that Miller’s argument doesn’t fully account for Bakhtin’s theory that the novel is always dialogic. Miller’s account does seem pretty monologic on the surface, but I need to investigate this on my own more fully, since I know that Bakhtin has no problem calling Tolstoy monologic, so I’m not sure he’d necessarily disagree with Milller…. But it’s an interesting point. Also, Brantlinger writes–based on Jameson’s claim that “the visual is essentially pornographic” (qtd. in Brantlinger 160)–that “surveillance, or the gaze of the detective-policeman, cannot be neatly disentangled from the pornographic gaze in any sensation novel” (160). Brantlinger references the pornographic gaze because sensation novels “operate obsessively, albeit regressively, to see, to render visible, what is unseen or hidden within ‘the secret theatre of home'” (160). So, Brantlinger poses the question: “Surveillance or pornography? […] Beyond the innocent though absolutist eye of the realist author, narrator, and reader, says the sensation novel, there is another, second way of seeing and therefore reading. But that second way of reading/seeing is neither self-evident nor safe” (162).

This is an interesting conversation between Brantlinger and Miller, and I think it relates specifically to my interest in the close-reading practices of sensation fiction–although I think Brantlinger pretty much covers everything I was interested in. But my thinking has taken some new directions since I formulated that interest, so that’s okay. Here’s how Brantlinger characterizes the detective-reader:

As if second-guessing the author, the detective reconstructs the fragmented text of the past–the buried story of the crime or crimes. As  super-reader, moreover, the detective seems to mediate between the novelist and the anonymous, ever-increasing “outlying mass of average readers,” the “unknown public” that Wilkie Collins, for one, both viewed with trepidation and sought to entertain. (146)

And here’s the main claim:

The emergence of the detective seems to be linked to a weakening or defaillancy of narrative authority, which in turn may be linked to a paradigm shift in modes of observation. (146)

Here’s the part where I have some questions:

The detective serves as an expert observer or reader of clues, one who is able to read differently from the (mere) novel-reader. The latter is reduced to hankering after both thrills and facts, while the distinction between the two–thrills and facts–blurs: the ultimate thrill is the final revelation of the criminal truth, a revelation provided by the detective, who after reading the clues can narrate the final, coherent story of the crime and effect a restoration of order. In this way, sensation novels are always allegories of reading that, on one hand, install a new professionalism or expertise while, on the other, validating the contested concept of novel-reading as mere pleasure, mere entertainment. From now on, they suggest, only experts can do the serious business of reading the book of the world. But for ordinary readers, there are newspapers and sensation novels. (146-147)

Hmmm….. I agree with this, overall. But I think there’s more to say here. It’s mostly the use of the words “professionalism,” “expertise,” and “experts” that I think are under-theorized here. First of all, a major part of D.A. Miller’s argument is that detective novels engage in a disavowal of professional crime-solvers, like the police, in favor of their amateur supplements. This is part of what establishes the normativity of surveillance in these novels. Police presence = disruptive, abnormal. Robert Audley or Franklin Blake = normal (and normative). So, I’m not sure that sensation novels really do “install a new professionalism or expertise.” I think the entire point of characters like Robert Audley and Franklin Blake and Magdalen Vanstone is that they are unprofessional and amateur–not experts at all. However, I have argued in other papers that Robert Audley, specifically, does gain expertise over the course of Lady Audley’s Secret (and I think I’ve run across an article that argues much the same thing). However, the novel is, in that sense, a bildungsroman that charts his development and professionalization. Brantlinger partially acknowledges this point: “the detectives in [sensation novels], for example, are often not Auden’s ‘genius from outside,’ but a character or characters directly involved in the story” (157). This is part of my point about Robert Audley’s professionalization: he is only motivated to act as a detective because he’s profoundly inside and involved in the story. As a barrister, he could have been the “genius from outside” in a number of other stories–but only affective bonds can prompt him to act. But Brantlinger concludes this particular point by writing: “In sensation and later mystery-detective novels, however, just as the intractable problem of evil is reduced to a neatly soluble puzzle on a personal level, so the search for self-knowledge is short-circuited” (157). I’m not sure about this. I think that Robert Audley’s narrative is similar to a bildungsroman–I’m not saying it is a bildungsroman, but I think it capitalizes (literally) on that structure–so maybe the search for self-knowledge is short-circuited…. but maybe the search for self-knowledge in a lot of these narratives is similarly short-circuited. I don’t know–I’ll have to examine this some more. The point is that many sensational detectives only become professionalized through the process of solving the crime–and they reach the closure of self-knowledge in these texts precisely because they are solving mysteries intimately connected with their own identities. So, yes, they are expert readers, but only in the way anyone might be an expert reader of her own life. As readers of the book of reality, I think many of them are profoundly amateur, especially when compared to a real “expert” like Sherlock Holmes.

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Michael Booth: A little too conservative for my taste….

First of all, let me say that I absolutely love Michael Booth’s book Theatre in the Victorian Age. It’s incredibly detailed and readable, and I now owe the majority of my Victorian theater knowledge to this book. Also, I should note that the intention of this book seems more expository than argumentative, so I can’t fault it for not over-interpreting the cultural phenomena that it introduces. I can read Elaine Hadley’s take on the Old Price Wars for more of a “perspective” on that issue… Also, I know that there is no such thing as pure objectivity, so I also can’t fault Booth for presenting his material in any way he sees fit.

BUT… sometimes as I’m reading his book, I get the sense that he’s not telling me the full story, and this bothers me–especially since I’ve just praised him for being so “detailed.” This happens early on in the book, when he throws out some trickle-down economics to explain why working-class people had so much money to spend on the theater: “To some extent the benefits of prosperity spread socially downwards, for real wages generally rose during the second half of the century and the cost of living declined, largely due to the availability from about 1870 to 1900 of cheap imported food” (7). Okay, okay, I know he says “to some extent” and “generally” to qualify this statement, and I see the point he’s making. And actually, this sentence alone doesn’t bother me. But in his chapter on management he goes on to narrate the rise of the Bancrofts at the Prince of Wales’s, and later the Haymarket, through raising the prices of seats in the pit, despite protest. Fine. But here’s his take on the issue:

It has been argued that these managers were socially elitist, that above all they coveted status and social standing and catered in their prices, their repertory, and their auditorium arrangements to a middle- and upper middle-class audience with money to spend on the now socially fashionable theatre. There is undoubtedly some truth in this. […] However, one can hardly blame them, in the entirely commercial Victorian theatre, for capitalising on their advantages and designing a product that would sell well in a market eager to buy. […] Why not make more money rather than less, if that were possible in fair competition and if one offered value for the money? […] It would be difficult to deny them that, or to blame the managers for taking advantage of a favourable situation. (55-56)

Yes, why not make more money, rather than less? That’s the logic of all capitalists, along with “why not work my employees more hours, rather than less?” But I think it’s the non-specificity of that logic that bothers me, as well. We could literally sympathize with anyone who exploits human labor on that logic: why not make more money, rather than less? I mean, lots of people in world history have been enslaved because someone took advantage of “a favourable situation.” And, in fact, wage slavery (and actual slavery, BTW) was a huge issue in London, in England, and in the world during this time, so yeah, this logic feels a little off-putting to me. And what about working-class audiences? I know there’s plenty of documentary evidence about their reactions to these price increases–so where’s the discussion of that evidence? Not in this book.

And what about colonial audiences? Booth mentions that many of these companies toured all over the world, from North America to Australia and New Zealand to India, South Africa, China, and the Pacific. All this touring took careful planning:

Even the most careful planning could be undermined by illness, unpredictable accidents and civil disturbances, and conditions in the country visited could vary from pleasant to appalling. After the necessary theatrical abilities, the most important qualities for touring performers to possess were adventurousness, perseverance and adaptability. They also had to confront and learn to cope with all kinds of minor irritants like strange and unfamiliar insects, climactic extremes, indifferent food, wearying train or coach travel and uncomfortable hotels. Nevertheless, companies persisted, for the rewards could be substantial. (21)

Good to know. But what were some of these “civil disturbances”? Could any of this have been related to British colonial subjects not wanting to welcome people they perceived as colonizers? Can I get a specific example here? And why were the conditions in some of these places “appalling”? Could this have anything to do with the effects of colonization (hint: yes)? It’s subtle, but this account treats the British players like heroic adventurers, and again, it ends on the vaguely economic suggestion that “the rewards could be substantial.” Again, I feel like I’m supposed to mythologize the acting company at the expense of finding out what was actually happening on those colonial tours.

One final note. I loved the “Playhouse and Production” chapter–that’s the first chapter I went to when I started reading this book. But in the midst of talking about pictorialism and archaeology on the stage, Booth tells me that the “visual image on the Victorian stage was neutral; it was never, as it is now, used to undermine a theme or directorial point of view, or to reinforce or undercut the text, but for pictorial beauty, recreation of the contemporary and historical environment, archaeological display, or sheer spectacular effect” (96). Art for art’s sake. No deconstruction. Okay, I guess maybe that makes a certain kind of sense, especially compared to contemporary filmmaking? I guess? I don’t know, though, even in these spectacle productions, calling the visual image “neutral”? The deconstructionist in me feels like that’s all kinds of wrong. Even if the intention (and c’mon, are we still talking about “intention”?) is simple historical accuracy and transparent representation, is historical representation EVER just “neutral”? Hint: no. Lurking in the background here is another form of historical colonization that seems absolutely fascinating to analyze and dig into more deeply…. but this book is giving me nothing on that front. Or perhaps I’ve completely turned into Sedgwick’s “paranoid reader” and I’m reading waaaay too much into this. More likely, though, I’m a person trying to write a dissertation and fill in some gaps that others have left wide open…. Either way, Theatre in the Victorian Age is an awesome book, and right now I don’t know what I’d do without it.

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Who’s Who in the Victorian Theater

This is all based on Michael Booth’s book Theatre in the Victorian Age. His second chapter is on management, and his fourth chapter is on actors–but most of the people he profiles are the same in both chapters, since famous actors often became managers (called, appropriately enough, “actor-managers”). Booth seems to have an immense amount of respect for these people, since they had incredibly demanding jobs. From his description, it seems like 16-hour days were typical for both actors and actor-managers.

A note on the term “actor-manager”: Not all managers were actors, but if an actor became a manager, s/he was also the star of all the plays that his/her particular theater produced. So, particular theaters were strongly associated with particular actor-managers, especially in the West End.

William Charles Macready: Actor-manager of Covent Garden (1837-39) and Drury Lane (1841-43), both of which were the West End theaters that had patents to produce the “legitimate” drama before the Theatre Regulation Act of 1843. He wanted to advance the interests of the legitimate drama (farce, tragedy, comedy) in Covent Garden and Drury Lane because he thought that the previous managers had been disasters, and had relied too much on spectacle. He, on the other hand, “paid a great deal of attention to scenic harmony and scenic ‘illustration’ of a text” (Booth 42). He anticipated the 20th century director in many ways, by rehearsing actors and technical staff very carefully and patiently and by coordinating all aspects of the production. He was a big fan of Shakespeare, and hated melodrama and other popular forms of drama. His managerial stints were brief, but he set the standard for everyone who followed him.

Madame Lucia Vestris: The first notable female manager of the nineteenth century. Theater management was one of the few professions in which women could compete on relatively equal levels with men, and even exert economic control over men (by hiring male actors). She was a comedienne, singer and dancer, and reopened the Olympic in 1831. The Olympic was a minor theater, and in 1831 it had no right to play the legitimate drama. However, Madame Vestris refused to perform melodrama, which was the standard form of the minor theaters. Instead, she “resolved to make the illegitimate repertory which she selected–musical pieces, little comedies, extravaganzas, farces and burlesques–as entertaining and fashionable as possible” (Booth 45). Through some redecoration, a shorter playbill, and careful rehearsal, she succeeded in attracting some fashionable audiences, although her management wasn’t particularly a huge financial success.

From 1839 to 1842, she and her new husband, the comedian Charles James Mathews, managed Covent Garden and started producing legitimate drama. They produced Love’s Labour’s Lost for the first time since the 17th century, and put on an important production of A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, which most people deemed unstageable. They succeeded tremendously with Dion Boucicault’s London Assurance.

From 1847 to 1855, Vestris and Mathews managed the Lyceum. This was after the Theatre Regulation Act, so they could produce anything they liked, but nonetheless, they didn’t succeed. They didn’t have a very good repertory, except for some spectacle extravaganzas by J.R. Planche. They depended mostly on adaptations of French plays. However, overall, their legacy showed that smaller theaters like the Olympic could succeed, and that attention to detail and careful rehearsal paid off.

Samuel Phelps: He was an actor under Macready, and he went on to manage Sadler’s Wells from 1844 to 1862. Sadler’s Wells was in Islington, a district in north-east London, so it was remote from the West End–which was a significant risk during this period. The risk paid off, since he built up a loyal local audience. Booth writes that it was “the nineteenth century’s single endeavour to decentralise London theatre and produce a legitimate repertory outside the West End” (46). Phelps went back to the West End to act, though, and after his management, “the concentration of theatrical forces in the West End strengthened and the area outside the centre was given over to the old working-class theatres and the new suburban playhouses–both of them, by the end of the century, merely staging posts for shows touring out of the West End” (46). He produced lots of Shakespeare, in addition to other 16th, 17th, and 18th-century plays that had previously lain dormant. He also tried to produce good work by contemporary dramatists. Like Macready, he insisted on careful rehearsals, but unlike Macready, he ran his company more as an ensemble (although he was still the star), and was not as jealous of potential rivals for the spotlight.

Charles Kean: Macready’s personal enemy. Like Macready, however, Kean comported himself like a gentleman, which did a lot to boost the credibility of the acting profession. His father, Edmund Kean, had been an actor who had lived a wild life, so Charles was interested in repairing the damage his father had done to the image of the actor. He managed the Princess’s Theatre from 1850-1859. Also like Macready, Kean went into his career to revive public interest in the stage and to elevate its status to more genteel levels. He produced a lot of Shakespeare (again, like Macready and Phelps). While Macready “had seen the value of spectacle as a means of historical illustration in Shakespeare and as a pictorial expansion of the text,” Kean saw it “as theatrically attractive in its own right and as a way of recreating Shakespeare’s historical settings as fully as possible” (47). Booth says that Kean’s team of scene-painters was “perhaps the strongest assembled by any nineteenth-century manager” (47). His basis for producing Shakespeare “lay in his own pictorial, archaeological and educational theory” (47), which led to his being made a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries during the run of Richard II in 1857. Many Victorians agreed with Kean that Shakespeare was both a historian and an educator, and the “best way to teach history was to do it from the stage by reanimating the actual historical past of the plays” (48).

He also produced two very popular Boucicault plays (adapted from the French): The Corsican Brothers (1852) (Queen Victoria saw this play 8 times) and Louis XI (1855). The Corsican Brothers established a “short-lived school of so-called ‘gentlemanly melodrama’ on the stage” (48). Despite his success in acting and production, Kean’s enterprise was not a financial success. He thought it was because of the limited capacity of the Princess’s, but he spent a lot on his theater and productions, so that could have factored in, too.

Charles Calvert: Managed the Prince’s Theatre in Manchester from 1864 to 1877. He tried to replicate Kean’s minute archaeology in his productions of Shakespeare–he even went to Venice to prepare for an 1871 staging of The Merchant of Venice and brought back a gondola.

Edward Saker: Managed the Alexandria in Liverpool. Also followed Kean’s archaeological methods in his productions of Shakespeare. Along with Calvert, Saker was responsible for raising the level of production quality in the provincial theaters. Where previously, provincial theaters had been known for training future celebrity actors, they were now establishing a reputation for quality production value.

Marie Wilton and Squire Bancroft: Marie Wilton had been typecast as a boy in burlesques, so when she got tired of that, she went into management. When she was still single, Wilton began managing a small, run-down theater named Queen’s. She redecorated it and renamed it to the Prince of Wales’s and deliberately excluded lower-class popular audiences. I guess this was the Victorian theater equivalent of gentrification. She did this by changing her repertory and by raising the prices of the stall seats by 600%. Ouch.

In 1867 she married Squire Bancroft, an actor in her company, and then he took over most of the managerial responsibility. At this point, they replaced their burlesques and comediettas with the works of Tom Robertson. His plays were incredibly popular and he made the Bancrofts a lot of money. According to Booth, “[n]ever was a Victorian management more dependent upon the work of one writer” (53). Between the decorations at the Prince of Wales’s, the relative intimacy of the theater’s size, and the drawing-room themes of Robertson’s plays, one reviewer noted in 1870 that the actors are “‘almost at arm’s length of an audience who sit, as in a drawing-room, to hear drawing-room pleasantries, interchanged by drawing-room personages'” (qtd. in Booth 53). And, in a great quote for my project, Henry James (ick), who “liked neither the Bancrofts’ style nor their principal dramatist, remarked of their ‘little theater’ that ‘the pieces produced there dealt mainly with little things–presupposing a great many chairs and tables, carpets, curtains, and knick-knacks, and an audience placed close to the stage. They might, for the most part, have been written by a cleverish visitor at a country house, and acted in the drawing-room by his fellow inmates'” (qtd. in Booth 53).

In 1880 the Bancrofts moved to the Haymarket theater and did so well that they were able to retire in 1885, after 20 years of theater management. They retired wealthy, but this was mainly because they had consistently raised the prices of their less expensive seats at both theaters they had managed, which of course, led to much debate.

Henry Irving: Managed the Lyceum from 1878 to 1899. He was possibly the brightest of all the star actors in the actor-management system, and was knighted for his efforts in 1895. The Lyceum’s success depended largely on his ability to star in almost every play in its repertory. The repertory was mostly romantic and historical melodrama and Shakespeare. His famous co-star was Ellen Terry, who I think was also knighted, in 1925. Apparently, Shaw wanted his plays to be in Irving’s repertory, but Irving refused to venture into Shaw’s or Ibsen’s “problem play” territory. Thanks in part to Irving, the Lyceum was the “first English company to be acclaimed internationally” (54). Like the Bancrofts, Irving “generally operated a long-run system, which meant that he usually had a lot of time to prepare and rehearse a new production” (54). In addition to Queen Victoria, Irving rubbed shoulders with all the VIPs of his day at numerous state dinners. But, he eventually worked himself to death and died on tour in 1905, after a disastrous fire in 1898 destroyed a lot of the theater’s stock and scenery, and he ended up having to turn over his managerial responsibilities to a syndicate.

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Theatre in the Victorian Age: Playhouse and Production

This is chapter 3 of Michael R. Booth’s fabulous, incredibly detailed book Theatre in the Victorian Age. This book is pretty much all you ever needed or wanted to know about the Victorian theater. He also quotes a wealth of primary sources in which people write about their experiences with the theater, which makes me feel better about finding contemporary reactions to plays, playhouses, etc.

In this chapter, he begins by describing the auditorium, and I’m going to include some long quotations from this section, since I think it will really help my argument. Booth writes that many Victorian auditoriums had a “drawing-room” feel to them, so that people would feel like they were in their own homes: “Percy Fitzgeral commented that in Irving’s Lyceum, ‘the whole has an air of drawing-room comfort … The spaces in front and behind the footlights seem to blend'” (58). He also quotes H.A. Saintsbury, who writes, “the spirit gripped you: it had enveloped you before you took your seat, gas-lit candles in their wine-coloured shades glowed softly on the myrtle-green and cream and purple with its gilt mouldings and frescoes and medallions … You were in the picture, beholding, yet part of it” (qtd. in Booth 58-59, my italics). This brings me to my favorite part of the chapter:

The Picture-Frame Stage: “Indeed, the stage was moving with architectural inevitability toward its final Victorian form: the picture-frame stage. The idea of the stage as a picture and the proscenium as its frame had been in the air for many years. George Saunders declared in 1790 that ‘the scene is the picture, and the frontispiece, or in other words the frame, should contrast the picture, and thereby add to the illusion’, and Benjamin Wyatt said of his 1812 Drury Lane that the proscenium ‘is to the Scene what the frame of a Picture is to the Picture itself’. Increasingly, […] the arts of painting and production came closer together. This development was concluded architecturally in 1880, when Bancroft put a moulded and gilded picture-frame, two feet wide, around the proscenium of the Haymarket, flush with the front of the stage” (70-71).

Why does the picture-frame stage matter?

No longer could the actor come downstage into the auditorium in a close relationship with the pit in front of him and the stage boxes on either side of him. Fixed behind the proscenium, he was now part of a stage picture, integrated with scenic effect and lighting in a manner previously impossible. (71)

So, the picture-frame stage changes the ways in which actors and audience can interact, and it also registers a growing quietude and detachment among theater audiences. Before 1880, audiences watched plays in lighted auditoriums, since they went to the theater “to see and be seen,” as it were. The play was only one part of a larger social interaction in the theater: “the Victorian theatre was a place of social resort as well as a facility for the performance of a play” (62). Later, Booth writes, “as time passed and manners changed audiences became quieter and more decorous, and people commonly went to the theatre for the sole purpose of seeing a play” (62). This is when it became okay to dim or turn out the house lights.

Booth continues on to discuss stage machinery and scene painting. Apparently, during the early part of the 19th century, audiences accepted sparse stage effects, since they expected a certain level of romanticism or impressionism from a play. They used standardized scenery (i.e.,  a generic forest scene for any play needing a forest backdrop). Booth writes, “[t]his system served a theatre whose public knew perfectly well that they were watching a play and did not insist on the illusion of reality; scenery was selective and aesthetic, almost suggestive representation of the interior and exterior world, not a replication of it” (74).

The Victorians, however, “were coming more and more to accept the doctrine of realism, or at least verisimilitude,” so “the old methods seemed increasingly inadequate” (74). So, scene-painting became much more detailed and time-consuming, and theaters also started using three-dimensional scenery in addition to elaborately-painted backgrounds. This made scene changes take much longer, so playwrights started including “carpenter scenes,” in which characters could act on the small strip of stage that protruded from behind the curtain while stage mechanics changed the scenery. Advances in lighting technology also meant that minutely-detailed backdrops were much more visible to the audience. And the picture-frame stage meant that scene-painters were much more important to the stage’s overall effect than they ever had been before. In fact, celebrated scene-painters like Clarkson Stanfield, David Roberts, and David Cox “went on to careers as famous easel artists and Academicians. Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Ford Maddox Ford, and Edward Burne-Jones designed sets, costumes and properties for Irving and Tree” (95). This all drives the Victorian stage further and further toward (historical and archaeological) realism.

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The Novel and the Police

This book is a pleasure to read. I knew it was heavily Foucauldian when I picked it up, but it’s written so crisply and energetically that I almost can’t put it down, and although I find Foucault fairly accessible already, this book renders his ideas so clearly that I feel like I have a better grasp on Discipline and Punish, too. The Novel and the Police is the pretty standard late-80s apply-a-theory kind of scholarship, but although we’re currently taught (well, at least I was) not to simply read a text through a single lens, I think this book is at the top of its category. Much like Foucault himself, I think D.A. Miller is so influential in Victorian studies that he has become the standard for later generations to a) live up to and b) critique. And my critique is pretty obvious: where’s the ladies, D.A. Miller? He writes: “Practically, the ‘nineteenth-century novel’ here will mean these names: Dickens, Collins, Trollope, Eliot, Balzac, Stendhal, Zola; and these traditions: Newgate fiction, sensation fiction, detective fiction, realist fiction” (2). Perfect for my project. But there’s only one female author on that list, and she doesn’t even rate highly enough to get her own chapter–despite being George Eliot. Wilkie Collins gets two entire chapters, and Mary Elizabeth Braddon gets a passing mention somewhere along the way. I know, I know, he gets to decide which texts fit his archive best, and I don’t really think he should have included female authors just because they’re female. I’m just saying it’s weird that in a book about policing, there’s no mention of a population who was policed so consistently, aggressively, and ideologically–and who wrote all the genres of fiction that he’s examining. And to use Foucault so extensively–the guy who wrote The History of Sexuality–and not to talk about gender….? Okay, enough of my soapbox.

Miller traces two things in this book: the trope of the police figure in the array of novels he examines, and the ways in which the novel itself enacts policing techniques. He spends quite a bit of time, at first, discussing the figure of the police or detective, which the novel places at the center of its focus, but which it also quickly moves to the periphery. If the police arrive on the scene, for example, their presence is felt to be intrusive, which posits a world in which the police are generally not needed, not present, not welcome. This does two things: first, it establishes an idea of “normalcy” which = no police presence; second, it demarcates a population (what Miller calls a “delinquent milieu”) in which police presence is necessary, thus separating the police–and by extension, the criminals–from everyday middle-class life. Miller refers to this phenomenon as the “coherence of delinquency” (4), which means that “[p]olice and offenders are conjoined in a single system for the formation and re-formation of delinquents” (5). Delinquency is coherent also because of its closed circuit, which makes it all but impossible for anyone in the delinquent category to escape it. This makes for a neat “outside” and “inside” that makes middle-class people feel safe and cozy. It also makes the closed circuit of delinquency feel isolated and foreign–“the world of delinquency is actively occulted: made cryptic by virtue of its cryptic isolation” (6). So, middle-class communities are defined by the absence of the police.

Following Discipline and Punish, Miller writes that society has moved from “the direct and quasi-instantaneous ceremonies of physical punishment to the prolonged mental mortifications of a diffuse social discipline” (14). Later, he follows up with this summary: “Traditional power founded its authority in the spectacle of its force, and those on whom this power was exercised could, conversely, remain in the shade. By contrast, disciplinary power tends to remain invisible, while imposing on those whom it subjects ‘a principle of compulsory visibility'” (17-18). So, no longer does the town gather around the gallows to internalize discipline through the spectacle of punishment. By the nineteenth century, discipline has become de-centered so that, as Miller writes, “[w]hat most sharply differentiates the legal economy of police power from the ‘amateur’ economy of its supplement is precisely the latter’s policy of discretion” (15, Miller’s italics). (I can really see this in Lady Audley’s Secret… Robert is so concerned about his uncle’s reputation that he carries on his investigation in secret.) I have to stop here and remark that this re-organizes my thinking on professionalization in sensation fiction, specifically Lady Audley’s Secret. I had been seeing sensation detectives and pre-professionalized detective-novel detectives. In other words, before “detective” was really a formalized job description, perhaps novels focused on attorneys, barristers, doctors, etc. as crime-solvers. And I wrote a paper about Robert Audley’s path to professionalization, which is a subject that still fascinates me. But seeing Robert Audley as a more discrete, gentlemanly supplement to the formal police force is really interesting. Robert Audley is “unprofessional” or amateur because the middle-class space of the novel wants to seem to remain police-free, while still enacting the police’s surveillance function. Miller calls this phenomenon disavowal: “By means of disavowal, one can make an admission while remaining comfortably blind to its consequences” (16). For more explanation:

In more general terms, the discretion of social discipline in the Novel seems to rely on a strategy of disavowing the police: acknowledging its affinity with police practices by way of insisting on the fantasy of its otherness. Rendered discreet by disavowal, discipline is also thereby rendered more effective–including among its effects that “freedom” or “lawlessness” for which critics of the Novel (perpetuating the ruse) have often mistaken it. Inobtrusively supplying the place of the police in places where the police cannot be, the mechanisms of discipline seem to entail a relative relaxation of policing power. No doubt this manner of passing off the regulation of everyday life is the best manner of passing it on. (16, Miller’s italics)

Wow. That’s a kickass paragraph. “The aim of such regulation,” Miller continues, “is to enforce not so much a norm as the normality of normativeness itself. Rather than in rendering all its subjects uniformly ‘normal,’ discipline is interested in putting in place a perceptual grid in which a division between the normal and the deviant inherently imposes itself” (18).

This theory of regulation and discipline is important because Miller goes on to argue that “[w]henever the novel censures policing power, it has already reinvented it, in the very practice of novelistic representation” (20, Miller’s italics). [Side note: Miller uses italics all the damn time, which distracted me at first, but then I realized that I was reading his argument like a sensation novel, and I got really, really excited. “And now I’m going to argue this NEXT thing!!! TURN THE PAGE to find out what I’ll say next!!!”] The panoptic, monologic narrative voice of traditional realist fiction is part of the novelistic policing power that Miller goes on to discuss: “For it [the omniscient narrative voice] intrinsically deprives us of the outside position from which it might be ‘placed.’ There is no other perspective on the world than its own, because the world entirely coincides with that perspective. We are always situated inside the narrator’s viewpoint, and even to speak of a ‘narrator’ at all is to misunderstand a technique that, never identified with a person, institutes a faceless and multilateral regard” (24). These realist narrators–especially George Eliot’s–often seem to be reporting the facts of the characters’ lives, while expressing sympathy and sorrow that they can’t intervene and help them when they’re in trouble. Of this, Miller writes: “Impotent to intervene in the ‘facts,’ the narration nevertheless controls the discursive framework in which they are perceived as such. […] The panopticism of the novel thus coincides with what Mikhail Bakhtin has called its ‘monologism’: the working of an implied master-voice whose accents have already unified the world in a single interpretive center” (25).

Here’s the part where Miller says something that might be directly useful to my argument:

The “significant trifle”: a “trifling detail that is suddenly invested with immense significance. Based on an egregious disproportion between its assumed banality and the weight of revelation it comes to bear, the ‘significant trifle’ is typically meant to surprise, even frighten. For in the same process where the detail is charged with meaning, it is invested with a power already capitalizing on that meaning. Power has taken hold where hold seemed least given: in the irrelevant. The process finds it most programmatic embodiment in detective fiction, where the detail literally incriminates” (28).

Miller says that the mainstream novel “dramatizes a power continually able to appropriate the most trivial detail” (28), as if to demonstrate that everything in the narrative world is under minute surveillance. This is another interesting avenue to think about in my own reading of sensational details, and in relation to G.H. Lewes’s “detailism.” Miller writes, “meaningfulness may not always be comforting when what it appropriates are objects and events whose ‘natural’ banality and irrelevance had been taken for granted” and “what had seemed natural and commonplace comes all at once under a malicious inspection, and what could be taken for granted now requires an explanation, even an alibi” (29). This definitely gives me a lot to think about, especially in terms of whether or not I think this can be related to the theater.

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The Maniac in the Cellar: The Wickedness of Woman: M.E. Braddon and Mrs. Henry Wood

From this chapter, I learned that there was a critical tendency during the 1860s to lump Braddon and Wood together “unceremoniously, without inquiring into any particular differences between them” (107). This really surprised me, since I found Lady Audley’s Secret and East Lynne so different that I originally didn’t think I could include them both in the same dissertation–East Lynne just didn’t seem “sensational” enough to me, at first. And beyond that, these are two completely different writers… other than their wild popularity, I don’t see how one could be mistaken for the other. But Hughes helps out with that question: “both Miss Braddon and Mrs. Wood demand sympathy for their fallen heroines, their bigamists or adulteresses, by making them suffer tremendously at the hands of fate and their own remorse. Both write about marriage as an unsatisfactory or illusory state instead of relegating it to the happy ending. Both rely heavily on ‘involuntary’ motivation–destiny, insanity, circumstance” (108).

Here, according to Hughes, is the main distinction between Braddon and Wood:

Mrs. Henry Wood, for all her dalliance with seduction and unexplained drownings and the dead alive, preserves the conventional meanings of stage melodrama, while herself doing much to foster the ‘increasing tendency of the heroine to die of sin,’ through the numerous dramatized versions of East Lynne. M.E. Braddon, however, deliberately undermines the traditional moral assumptions. If Wood’s novels show a new emphasis on the repentant sinner within the compass of authentic melodrama, Braddon’s show the beginning of a change in substance that will eventually make melodrama itself an empty and outdated form. (110)

Wood, apparently, lived a quiet life with an unassuming husband who eventually left her a widow. She didn’t have much scandal in her life, and she pretty much just talked about her servants and her furniture, it sounds like. One interesting thing that Hughes points out about her novels is that the murders usually take place offstage, “but the deaths from remorse or consumption are vividly dramatized” (112). That’s certainly true in East Lynne, and signals the strong domestic current in her fiction. Going to Hughes again:

The narrow focus on emotional states, while effective in its way, deprives East Lynne of much of the violence and excitement that enliven more typical sensation novels. Although she invokes the darker elements of evil and crime, so that at least her plot outlines look recognizably sensational, Wood makes no attempt to portray them in any depth or to explain her criminal characters. (116)


On a popular level, this is again symptomatic of the banality of evil as the Victorians perceived it–the “decay of murder” in Leslie Stephen’s terms. By the 1860s the primitive vitality of the stage villain has receded even in an unsophisticated melodrama like East Lynne, leaving behind only his established physical traits. (116)

Mary Elizabeth Braddon, on the other hand, did not lead a quiet, scandal-free existence. In fact, she was insanely badass. At 22, she decided to support her mother after her father disappeared by taking to the stage under an assumed name. Then, as she was making her name during the 1860s, she shacked up with John Maxwell, “a rising magazine publisher with a wife in a mental institution” (120). They eventually had 5 illegitimate children. Take THAT, Victorian gender constraints!!! Lady Audley’s Secret was actually an attempt to save one of Maxwell’s publishing ventures (ladies to the rescue!), and she wrote the entire first installment overnight. In commemoration of her awesomeness, I’m going to write the first installment of my dissertation overnight. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Probably my favorite point in this chapter comes from at quotation from a critic writing for the Christian Remembrancer, who says that Braddon “consistently deals with ‘human nature … in a scrape … And it is with people in a scrape, or ready at any moment to fall into one, that she sympathizes.’ Her heroines possess what might be called ‘expansive natures,’ impetuous and undisciplined, while their villainous counterparts, from Lady Audley to Olivia Marchmont, ominously fulfill the role of ‘the ordinary feminine ideal'” (Hughes 123). This is an absolutely beautiful point, and I don’t think I need to elaborate any more on why this makes me admire Lady Audley’s Secret even more than I already did.

Here’s Hughes again:

The feminine ideal, as she portrays it, is potentially treacherous, for both the women who conform and the men who worship them; the standard feminine qualities–childishness, self-suppression, the talent for pleasing–inherently contain the seeds of their own destruction. By reversing conventional expectations, within the safe and familiar framework of stage melodrama, Miss Braddon redefines the heroine and relocates the traditional conflict of good and evil firmly within the boundaries of middle-class domesticity. Instead of abandoning the popular conventions, she circumvents them, using them against themselves, investing them with a new ironic significance. (124)

I think it’s also worth remembering for my project that, while her work and what she represents inspired outrage during the sensation craze, by the end of the century, she came to be associated with a cozy sense of nostalgia for the proverbial simpler times. Hughes cites a tribute that calls her “part of England; she has woven herself into it; without her it would be different … She is in the encyclopaedias; she ought to be in the dictionaries” (qtd. in Hughes 135). That’s a great place to leave this post!

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Filed under Secondary reading