Critic Is Really Talking about Self
By Leonard Wibberley
First Published May 27, 1979
3/7/2016
One of the tasks from which I flinch, though I have occasionally undertaken it, is that of critic.
To be of any value, criticism, we all believe, should be both informed and unbiased. It is possible that such criticism actually exists, but it is not the work of a human being, rather the output of a computer.
Human criticism, bless it, is biased. It is subjective. It presents the individual point of view of the critic and it cannot be otherwise, unless the critic is able to annihilate himself.
So, in reading criticism it is well to bear in mind that the critic is really talking about himself, his feelings and reactions. If he has any wit at all, that is the kind of criticism which is the most interesting to read and, in the long run, the most beneficial.
Novelists, of course, are subject to criticism in the form of reviews. Nor are they unaffected by these reviews. They are elated or thrown down or turned murderous by what is written about their work – as are playwrights, actors, artists, sculptors and pastry cooks.
And since I do not like to be elated, thrown down or rendered murderous beyond what is natural to me (which is quite enough), I have made it a rule never to read reviews of my work.
But once a well-meaning friend, not knowing of my taboo, sent me a review of a book of mine which contained the following splendid sentences:
“It is difficult to decide for what audience this book was written. The type is too small for children and the thought too small for adults.”
Here was a reviewer of real talent and I wrote him a letter congratulating him on his wit and English usage, and commiserating with him on his shallowness of mind.
We have remained good friends ever since.
The composer Hector Berlioz was himself a critic and a good one, but took unkindly to criticism of his own work. Having had one creation of his thoroughly roasted, he wrote to the man responsible as follows:
“Sir: I am sitting in the smallest room of my house with your criticism of my work before me. It will shortly be behind me…”
The response lacks delicacy to be sure – but not force.
Perhaps the most popular of all critics in the field of music was George Bernard Shaw. He had two great pluses going for him. The first was that he knew music thoroughly. The second was that he had acquired all his stupendous knowledge himself without attending a single lecture on the subject.
He was not imprisoned by all the musical clichés and attitudes and foibles of the academician, which, however hard the instructor may try, turns many a musical student into a musical snob.
Shaw was never a snob. His music criticism was straightforward, chatty, witty and so well informed that it was read with zest by bricklayers, plumbers, nursemaids and stockbrokers.
It is still the most readable of all music criticism to this day and I have often wondered what he would have said of the Beatles and their descendants.
If Shaw had a vice at all, it was that he insisted on telling the truth – which, of course, is unforgivable.
He was once asked by his editor, as a change from music criticism, to write an article on the opening of the Royal Academy when the paintings judged by experts to be the best produced by British artists are put on exhibition.
“For God’s sake, Shaw,” the editor said, “don’t get everybody annoyed with us. Truth is fine, but try a little tact as well.”
Shaw promised, went to the opening day, came home and wrote his article. The first sentence, as I recall, it was: “It is doubtful whether the graphic arts in Britain will ever recover from the heavy blow delivered them today by the opening of the Royal Academy…”
He was buried under an avalanche of protest and I do not think he was permitted to undertake any art criticism thereafter, which is a pity, for he had a talent for it.
In fairness, let me conclude with a word or two on Shaw’s own attitude towards criticism. He was an excellent playwright and his plays were early subjects to panning. He read the reviews carefully, was dismayed by the lack of insight shown by the critics and, thereafter, wrote a critique of his own plays, published as a preface and intended as a guide for reviewers and audience alike.
One has to admit that in many instances, these critiques are more informative and more amusing than the plays themselves.
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