Empson's Intentions

"What is a hesitation, if one removes it altogether from the psychological dimension?"

Giorgio Agamben, The End of the Poem

I

There is a moment in William Empson's Seven Types of Ambiguity when he decides to linger in Macbeth's mind. The future killer is trying to convince himself that murder might be not so bad a crime (for the criminal) if he could just get it over with. This is about as unreal as a thought could be, coming from a man who seems to have been plotting murder even before he allowed himself consciously to think of it, and whose whole frame of mind is haunted by what he calls consequence, the very effect he imagines it would be so nice to do without. The speech begins

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success ...

Empson takes us through the passage with great spirit, commenting on every line and its spinning, hissing meanings, and then alights on a single word:

And catch, the single little flat word among these monsters, names an action; it is a mark of human inadequacy to deal with these matters of statecraft, a child snatching at the moon as she rides thunderclouds. The meanings cannot all be remembered at once, however often you read them; it remains the incantation of a murderer, dishevelled and fumbling among the powers of darkness. [ST 50]

It is an act of alert critical reading to spot the action word among the proliferating concepts, especially since it names only an imaginary act; and generous to suggest that Macbeth, crazed and ambitious as he is, even as he contemplates the killing of his king, can still represent a more ordinary human disarray among matters that are too large, too consequential for us. Alert too to see that Shakespeare represents this case not only dramatically but also through his character's choice of an individual word. But then to call the other words monsters, to identify the small verb as a child, and to introduce the moon and the thunderclouds, is to create a whole separate piece of verbal theatre, and to produce something scarcely recognizable as criticism. And when at the end of the quotation Empson widens his frame, returning to Macbeth's full, anxious meditation, he continues the same double practice. He turns our failure to grasp all the meanings into an achieved Shakespearean effect and not a readerly shortcoming, and he finds a figure of speech for the character and the situation. The word becomes a whole passage, the child becomes a fumbling and disheveled magician, and the moon and thunderclouds become the powers of darkness.

What is happening here? Empson would say, too modestly, that this is descriptive criticism — as distinct from the analytic kind. But he is not describing anything. It is not impressionistic criticism either, an attempt to evoke the feelings the work has aroused in the reader, although this is closer to the mark. Empson is tracing a pattern of thought, and finding metaphors for the behavior of a piece of language. William Righter, thinking of such effects, speaks of "narrative substitution," and of a critical style "which has the form and manner of paraphrase, but is really a caricature" [Righter 72, 68]. This seems perfect as long as we regard the caricature as both lyrical and inventive, an enhancement of the text rather than a mockery of it, a simplification that also complicates.

Empson's writing reminds us (we do forget such things) that characters in plays are made of words, they are what they say, or more precisely they are what we make of what they say, and his metaphors bring the life of these words incredibly close to us. The child snatches and Macbeth fumbles, but the child is herself a verb, and Macbeth is a man using words to keep his mind away from a deed.

I thought of this passage on the one occasion when I saw and heard Empson. He was giving the Clark Lectures in Cambridge in 1974. What I mainly remember is his waving about a piece of paper on which he had some notes, not lecturing so much as commenting on what had come up in the office hours he had held the week before in Magdalene College, the place from which he was once expelled. Much of the material was fascinating, if disorderly, but I was struck more than anything else by the energy and the chaos of what he was saying, and the sense that he found the questions that he had been asked or that had occurred to him in his conversations far more interesting than whatever he had prepared as a lecture. Recorded reports of the event come close to my memory, but have a different tone. George Watson says Empson didn't mention the names of anyone whose work he was objecting to, just said "Oh, I'm sure you know who they are." Leo Salingar says Empson "rambled on interminably" [Haffenden II 562]. I did wonder if Empson was entirely sober, but I still felt the passion and the mind in play, and there was something wonderfully tireless about the performance, as if talking avidly about literature and life was the best thing anyone could be doing. He was trying to find his way among a crowd of ideas, and didn't know which to look at first or for how long. And I suppose I already thought that he might have his own forms of dishevelment.

For these and other reasons I see the Macbeth passage not as a model — who could follow it? — but as a spectacular instance of what criticism can do, of how personal and imaginative it may be while remaining very close to the text. If it doesn't look like much of the criticism we know, it is because it isn't.

The Empson I would like to conjure up in this book is a writer, both as a critic and a poet, and I need to pause over some of the meanings of the term. We use it very broadly to name a person who does writing of any kind — a screenwriter, a ghostwriter, an underwriter, even the kind of painter who is a sign writer. We use it rather obnoxiously to mean someone who makes plays or poems or novels, as distinct from a mere journalist or author of memos and memoirs. But there is another sense, one which involves no particular genre or form of writing, which signals only a long intimacy with language, a feeling that you have to care for it and can't go anywhere without it. Roland Barthes offers the clearest definition I know of this meaning of the word when he says that a writer is "someone for whom language is a problem, who experiences its depth, not its usefulness or beauty" ("Est écrivain celui pour qui le langage fait problème, qui en éprouve la profondeur, non l'instrumentalité ou la beauté"). The word "problem" may come across as a little too assertive in English, since I don't think Barthes means language is a difficulty, an obstacle in the way of meaning, although many authors do indeed think this. Barthes is saying that language for a writer is something to live with or live through (his phrase also has a suggestion of testing about it), rather than to use or admire. Of course we can (must) use it too, and we can admire it if we want to. Yet only writers (and certain kinds of reader) will believe they can never leave language to the side of any question.

Describing La Rochefoucauld's devastating maxims, Empson says:

The triumph of the style is that he can say a very long list of mean things without your ever feeling that he himself is mean; it would not be good writing unless it was felt to carry a hint of paradox and therefore self-contradiction. [CW 433]

I'm not sure paradox and self-contradiction are necessary, but the idea of performance is, the creation of a self in words, and certainly writing in the sense I am trying to evoke will appear only when some sort of hinting is going on as well as a more direct saying.

There is a conundrum, though. Not all critics are writers — perhaps most of them are not — and some of them are better when they don't try to be. We can say what we mean in almost any number of ways, and Empson would still have been a great critic if he had written differently, or worse — if he had not been a writer at all in my last sense. But he would not have been the critic (and poet) that he was. If his Macbeth was not fumbling among the powers of darkness, he would not be Empson's Macbeth, and we would not have this helpless killer among our repertoire of human possibilities.

II

William Empson was born in Yorkshire in 1906, and died in London in 1984. He studied mathematics, then English, at Cambridge, wrote poems and plays, acted, reviewed films and books. He left Cambridge in something of a hurry. He was about to take up a postgraduate fellowship at Magdalene College when a bedmaker discovered a pack of condoms in his rooms. The authorities inferred that Empson's plans were not exclusively academic, and, invoking an ancient local rule that sex and scholarship could not share a space, at least not if anyone knew about their meeting, expelled him.

He worked as a freelance writer in London for two years before going to Japan, in 1931, to teach at Tokyo University, where he stayed until 1934. He spent three years back in England before joining the exiled universities in China. During the war he worked for the BBC Overseas Service in London, returning to China for the years 1947–1952. He published three volumes of verse between 1935 and 1949. The works of criticism printed during his lifetime were Seven Types of Ambiguity (1930), Some Versions of Pastoral (1935), The Structure of Complex Words (1951), and Milton's God (1961).

In both poetry and prose Empson has the attractive ability to make paradoxes sound as if they were not paradoxes at all, just bits of moderately complicated thinking of the sort anyone needs to do now and again. There was a minor vogue in the 1970s and early 1980s for associating him with French theory, with deconstruction specifically, but Empson himself would have none of it. When Christopher Norris sent him some writings of Derrida and others, Empson said he thought "those horrible Frenchmen" were "so very disgusting, in a social and moral way, that I cannot stomach them" [Haffenden I 301]. He also managed, perhaps unintentionally, to invent a new Frenchman: Jacques Nerrida. What Empson found disgusting was the seeking out, as he saw it, of complexity for complexity's sake, a project that was "always pretending to be plumbing the depths" but in reality was only congratulating itself on its cleverness. Above all he took it — this was in 1971 — as just one more instance of what he saw as happening to the study of language and literature everywhere: the human stakes were being removed, words were let loose in the playground, no agents or intentions were to be seen.

And yet Empson's work, for all his denials, connects him strongly to all the major modern movements of criticism and theory in English and other languages — not because of his influence on them or their influence on him, but because his preoccupations are central to any sort of ongoing thought about literature. We can't tie him securely to any style or approach, but we can't get around him either: he will always be there when we try to understand the kinds of adventure that reading can afford.

Empson is often considered to be one of the founders of the New Criticism, as it came to be called in the United States, and he is certainly the most brilliant close reader the movement ever produced. But as close reading, a fabulous classroom device, became more and more of an established method, it turned less historical and less speculative, until finally it seemed unable to refer to anything other than the words on the page, or to allow the belief that those words referred to anything beyond the page. Empson conducted a lifetime quarrel with the New Criticism's idea of intention, and intensely disliked its promotion of the work of literature as a static object, a verbal icon or a well-wrought urn, to cite two cherished images.

In 1946 W. K. Wimsatt and Monroe Beardsley wrote an important essay called "The Intentional Fallacy," advancing the proposition that "the design or intention of the author is neither available nor desirable as a standard for judging the success of a work of literary art." The piece was and remains enormously useful for the ways in which it helps us to resist lazy critical confusions of life and art, and reductive notions of causality. It also reminds us of an easily buried fact: the road to terrible work in literature or any other art is paved with excellent intentions. Intention may be where things begin — although accident too is a promising start — but the result includes quite a few other ingredients. However, the phrase "neither available nor desirable," dogmatic as good polemical announcements need to be, doesn't stand up to any sort of nuanced consideration. An author's design or intention is sometimes completely known and quite enlightening, sometimes far too blunt and entirely distracting. In some cases we shall never know it but desperately wish we could. In others we are delighted that we don't. Many authors are articulate yet distinctly evasive about intention, and unconscious intentions lurk all over the place. There is no general rule here, one simply has to do the work of reading and thinking.

For Empson, though, the doctrine of the intentional fallacy, which he liked to call the Wimsatt Law, was a rule. It said we were not to think of authors at all, literature was to be cleanly separated from the messy world of appetite and argument and intended meaning. He thought the rule was the bane of literary studies in the second half of the twentieth century, and he was almost as obsessed with its noxious effects as he was with what he saw as the invasion of English and American universities by hordes of Christian critics.

The Wimsatt Law, according to Empson, "lays down that no reader can grasp the intention of any author," or with a slight variation, "says that no reader can ever grasp the intention of an author" [UB 225, vii]. Since he thinks this proposition is both nonsensical and harmful, Empson is inclined to parody it as well as simplify it, as in "a reader must never understand the intention of an author" [ES 158] or his sarcastic suggestion that a seventeenth-century audience "could not foresee that Mr Wimsatt was going to make a law forbidding them to grasp the intention of an author" [UB 104].

"We must consider the experiences and convictions of the poet," Empson insists, follow out "the main line of interest of the author"; and to tell students of literature that they "cannot even partially succeed" in doing this "is about the most harmful thing you could do" [UB 4, 115, viii]. Going out on a rather strange limb, Empson is willing to say that faking biographical evidence is "more humane than the refusal to admit help from biography, or any intention in the author" [UB 42]. He is quite sure that Andrew Marvell "would feel ashamed of what he had done." W. B. Yeats "must have loved such a toy when he was about ten years old." "It seems clear that [T. S. Eliot's] mother had refused to sleep under the same roof as the wife" [UB 7, 176, 194]. But the passion that tilts these arguments is interesting, and we need to look at a wider range of Empson's views to understand its force.

The most blatant example of Empson's breaking the Wimsatt Law is also the funniest. To understand Hamlet, he thinks, we must go back to "the moment of discovery by Shakespeare" [ES 79]. This would have happened when Shakespeare's company took on a Hamlet play by Thomas Kyd (or someone else), and didn't know what to do with it because they were aware that this croaking old revenge stuff was desperately out of fashion. Shakespeare would have thought of the rewrite as "a pretty specialised assignment, a matter, indeed, of trying to satisfy audiences who demanded a Revenge Play and then laughed when it was provided" [ES 84]. Still, he carried on.

I think he did not see how to resolve this problem at the committee meeting, when the agile Bard was voted to carry the weight, but already did see how when walking home. ... He thought: "The only way to shut this hole is to make it big. I shall make Hamlet walk up to the audience and tell them, again and again, 'I don't know why I'm delaying any more than you do; the motivation of this play is just as blank to me as it is to you; but I can't help it.' What is more, I shall make it impossible for them to blame him. And then they daren't laugh." It turned out, of course, that this method, instead of reducing the old play to farce, made it thrillingly life-like and profound.

Empson's idea of Shakespeare's "method" makes the film Shakespeare in Love look like a documentary, and the touch about walking home is marvelous. Is he serious? Yes and no, but I find it impossible to measure the respective doses. He is serious about considering the "moment of discovery," and about the very fine interpretation he is proposing. Hamlet does talk as if he knew he was caught up in a terrible old play. The rest, the committee meeting, the ventriloquized author's soliloquy, is bravura filling in of comic detail: critical theatre. The question is — we are talking about intentionality after all — how comic Empson meant the detail to be.