Give the Public What they Want? Northrop Frye’s ‘Anatomy of Criticism’

This last Christmas, I was gifted Joseph Campbell’s seminal work ‘The Hero with a Thousand Faces’, a publication so synonymous with the field of universal literary criticism that it is in danger of becoming hackneyed.

Within its pages, Campbell intwines his encyclopaedic knowledge of mythology with his insight into contemporary psychology, in order to effectively illustrate the common characteristics and motifs that exist within all ancient tales. From the epics of Homer to the philosophies of Buddha, Campbell masterfully outlines the omnipresent figure that unites them all— the archetypal hero, and the trials and tribulations they face.

This is not a Scribbling about Joseph Campbell— that I will save for a later date. But his ‘The Hero with a Thousand Faces’ is a prime example of the kind of far-reaching, overarching exploration of writings that I am fascinated by. And that’s just the type of literary criticism, it so happens, that Canadian scholar Northrop Frye attempted to define in his ‘Anatomy of Criticism’.

‘Anatomy of Criticism’ is comprised of an introduction, four essays and a ‘Tentative Conclusion’, and in the foreword to my Princeton Classics edition it is lauded by literary historian David Damrosch as ‘probably the single most influential work of literary theory ever written by a North American critic.’ 

Upon its very first page, Frye lays out exactly his intention for the work— to outline the ‘possibility of a synoptic view of the scope, theory, principles and techniques of literary criticism’. In essence, rather than one that fixates on the small details of individual texts, or is shuttered by the contemporary biases and tastes of the critic, Frye seeks a holistic, universal framework for literary theory that is systematic in its structure and scientific in its method.

First, an aside about my own relationship with this ‘most influential work’. Fresh out of university, I was eagerly seeking to continue my delving into the depths of literary history, and so was also intent on learning more about the biggest thinkers within the field. Therefore, it wasn’t long before I came across the name of Northrop Frye— and from him, the ‘Anatomy’.

I quickly purchased the work for myself, and then just as quickly found that this is not a leisurely read. Frye is not an obtuse or inaccessible writer by any means, and his composition is fluent and entertaining enough for one to emerge from the essays with a passing comprehension of his main points. But his subject is so ambitious, so enormous, and so comprehensive, that to truly understand all the facets and nuances of his argument is no easy task.

As I have stated before, I began these Scribblings primarily as a way of working out certain complex issues that I come into contact with, through the structuring process of putting thoughts down onto (digital) paper. In this manner, then, I believe that this medium is precisely the perfect way that I can properly engage with the ‘Anatomy’— whilst I do not intend to simply lay out Frye’s points by rote (an exercise that I fear would be extensive and mind-numbingly dull) there are occasions when his writing provokes me into tangential avenues of thought.

One such instance occurred a few pages into Frye’s ‘Polemical Introduction’ (indeed, we have not even made it to the first essay yet). Here, the theorist lays the groundwork for the road ahead, and his opening gambit is to justify the role of the critic in literary appreciation as a whole. Far from being an embittered failed artist, or a parasite leeching off the talent of others, Frye argues that the critic is in fact necessarily the ‘final judge’ of a work’s value and meaning, more so even than the artist themselves. Existing in a conceptual space beyond public opinion, or the biases of the writer, Frye’s critic is able to methodically consider the work in question against a broader systematic backdrop of all preceding and contemporary works.

Frye takes a less favourable view, however, of the ‘public critic’, the predominating personae of the literary critic in history who casts judgement based on the prevailing tastes of the time, rather than an objective methodology. Such figures should not be completely discredited, in Frye’s opinion, but should instead simply step aside for more serious, systematic criticism. Examples of such people would be Matthew Arnold, William Hazlitt or Charles Lamb, who represent ‘the reading public at its most expert and judicious’.

For another example, F.R. Leavis spent much of his career deigning the value of works against a fixed framework of morals. But as Frye deftly points out in the ‘Anatomy’, any notions of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ seem to always depend on the biases of the critic themselves. Likewise, art that a critic proclaims as truly ‘authentic’ tends to be simply ‘whatever [that critic] happens to like’. Their criticism certainly cannot be said to be a universally applicable one.

As such, because what the public wants is grounded largely in the sentiments (and the flaws) of the time, participants within this ‘history of taste’ are restricted from truly understanding the value of a work. Often, they will work simply to reinforce the contemporary zeitgeist, not to challenge it. An important part of Frye’s criticism of this type of criticism (a critic-ception) is his condemnation of the tendency to rally against the quality of certain canonical texts with each new epoch of literary theory— a warning that, I might add, feels more appropriate to this age than ever. Criticism should assess the value and meaning of a text from a purely objective and scientific level, instead of deliberately and arbitrarily erecting subjective hierarchies of value (“oh, Austen is far more enjoyable than Dickens”, or “Hardy does go on a bit, therefore Wells is generally the master craftsman”) which for Frye are always ‘based on a concealed social, moral, or intellectual analogy’.

In arguing that only a properly trained, suitably disciplined critic can understand the true value of a text, one might think that Frye was being, for lack of a better term, snobbish. Claiming that the public cannot accurately discern literary value themselves is akin to claiming that ‘people don’t know what they want’— quickly developing into ‘people don’t know what’s good for them’, and then the dreaded ‘we’re doing this for your own good!’, with all the implications of that.

In my eyes, the remedy to this risk is to entirely step back from any active attempts to influence the public and their taste. If a work is unleashed that the creator thinks is revolutionary, and could really usher in a new epoch of literary appreciation, then they should not have to enforce its value upon the public. If the work truly is of that merit, the general populace will be drawn to it themselves— there will be no need for some shrill, authoritarian artist to cudgel them into submission while screaming “You wouldn’t know good art if it hit you!”

Much less, it won’t require a figure of assumed qualification condemning an unreceptive public for their immorality, prejudice, or otherwise. Ethical blackmail is not a solid foundation for literary appreciation, either.

In the end, the difficulty with relying on public opinion to determine the merit of art is that a conscious effort is required to perceive the limitations of things that you love. We all entrench ourselves in what is comfortable, and when something else comes along to challenge it, we feel as if some part of our being is within the crosshairs. Many claim that they actively want a challenge, but they really don’t— often what is wished for is a challenge that merely reaffirms the suppositions they were already comfortable with, rather than shakes them to their very core. Building back up from the desolation of square one, after all, is a terrifying prospect. But the phoenix cannot be revived until it has been reduced to ash, as we know.

And often also, people do not know what they want because it is simply not there yet. Entering the 70s, would anyone have asked for a rock-opera epic with an acapella midsection? No, and yet Bohemian Rhapsody sat at number 1 in the charts for 14 weeks total. 20 years later, were the public clamouring for a children’s story about a boy wizard with a lightning scar? And a decade after that, who would’ve predicted a cinematic universe based around little-known comic-book characters would’ve held the box office rapt?

Of course, this all begs the exciting question— what revolution is coming down the pipeline next, that the public has no idea is waiting for them?

Thank you for reading,