I posted this essay in June 2020 with the intention of beginning a series of posts on the value and use of “theory” in and for Celtic studies (in the broadest sense); I had also planned to accompany it with suggested introductory reading lists for different bodies of theory. neither of these ambitions has (yet) panned out, but I think the essay stands all right on its own. I hope it may be useful.
Historically, for a variety of reasons, Celtic studies as a discipline has been what we might call “theory-averse” — or perhaps “theory-hesitant”.[1] There are, obviously, exceptions to this — sociolinguistics, for example, and theory has made inroads to varying extents in the contexts of literary criticism on and through modern Welsh, Irish, and, to a lesser extent, Scottish Gaelic.[2] In the context of this post and the ones that follow, I address myself primarily to literary scholars (regardless of the time period or language they work on) — but I hope that scholars of other areas of Celtic studies might find some of what I have to say, and some of the texts I will mention, useful.
One reason for this hesitation about theory, I have come to suspect, is simply that, because of the disciplinary origins of Celtic studies (philology, primarily medieval), few people whose primary disciplinary background is in Celtic studies proper receive training in “theory” as such — some of the hesitation, in other words, I suspect is rooted simply in unfamiliarity or in received understandings of “theory” (as well, perhaps, as a disciplinary attachment to “apolitical” philological methods), rather than considered opposition to actual theory.[3][4]
To be clear: I mean this with no sense of judgment — there is good and interesting work being done in Celtic studies “without theory” (although we should keep in mind that “without theory” really means something closer to “without an explicitly articulated theory”; even “strictly” philological work brings with it theoretical — and political — presuppositions), across the whole range of periods and geographic areas that the field encompasses. My point is just that many people simply do not know what theory, broadly construed, might have to offer — and, if they are curious about it, may not know how or where to begin to engage with it. My goal in this post and the ones that (I hope) will follow it is to offer suggestions and guidance.
While I am — among other things — a specialist in contemporary Scottish Gaelic literature, my educational background, from my B.A. onwards, has been in comparative literature (formerly and arguably still the heartland of “theory” as such in the North American academy). As such, I have a relatively extensive (though by no means all-encompassing — this would be impossible, anyway) background in theory, which was a core component of my undergraduate program and graduate programs. My intention here, then, is to try to share some of what I’ve learned over the years, in hopes that it may be useful for people who are trying to figure out where to start. If this project seems somewhat bold (especially coming from someone who hasn’t finished his Ph.D. yet), I hope you’ll forgive the audacity.
First I would like to briefly consider what theory can and cannot do. A few years ago on her now-deleted twitter, Sofia Samatar (I believe) identified a common problem with the ways theory is often taught, namely the idea that theory is something external that is done to a text. In this understanding, different strands of theory are presented as “tools” (or “methods”) that can be used to perform what Samatar described as a kind of “autopsy” on a literary text — a process that leaves both the literature and the theory feeling dead. This is perhaps the kind of critical practice that those in Celtic studies who have expressed an aversion to “theory” have in mind — and it is, to my mind, a misguided one, especially when we are dealing (as anyone working on Celtic-language literatures is) with literary texts produced under very different circumstances and in very different contexts than the literary referents of mainstream theory.
Against this approach, I offer, first, Toril Moi’s pointed (and perhaps somewhat glib) observation that “whether I do a postcolonial or a feminist or a psychoanalytic reading, methodologically I do the same thing: I read” (2017, 178). That is, different “schools” (a word that’s often used) of theory are not, as a rule, wildly different “methodologies”, even if there are differences in the ways critics from different “schools” approach texts (and there are). Theory will not “solve” or, even, “explain” a text in the way that we might expect a scientific theory to offer an explanation of particular phenomena. Rather, different bodies of theory encourage us to attend to different aspects of, questions concerning, and problems in the texts we read — and, hopefully, offer us conceptual “tools” to help us productively engage with them in different ways.
Secondarily, I share Barbara Christian’s hesitation about the disconnect that this presupposes between theory and literature (and the practice of literary criticism, in particular): “My fear is that when Theory is not rooted in practice, it becomes prescriptive, exclusive, élitish” (1987, 58). By the same token, the way she articulates between her critical practice and the literary texts she works on resonates strongly with my own thinking about my critical practice:
So my “method,” to use a new “lit. crit.” word, is not fixed but relates to what I read and to the historical context of the writers I read and to the many critical activities in which I am engaged, which may or may not involve writing. It is a learning from the language of creative writers, which is one of surprise, so that I might discover what language I might use. For my language is very much based on what I read and how it affects me, that is, on the surprise that comes from reading something that compels you to read differently, as I believe literature does. I, therefore, have no set method, another prerequisite of the new theory, since for me every work suggests a new approach. (1987, 62)
When I submitted an early draft of my first dissertation chapter, one of my committee members observed that I was relying on a particular theoretical concept and that, while it was clear what this concept was doing for my argument, it was not clear what my argument was doing for this theoretical concept. This was a question I had been moving towards but never articulated so clearly, and I think it clarifies the difference between an autopsy-ish use of theory and the kind of use I would encourage instead (especially in Celtic studies). The relationship between “theory” and “literary text” is (or should be) a conversation. There is, of course, the obvious question: how does a given “theoretical” text change, or clarify, or add to our understanding of the “literary” text we are reading it alongside? But there is another question, equally important: how does the “literary” text we are reading change, or clarify, or add to our understanding of the “theoretical” text we are reading it alongside? Literary texts, after all, often (I would be inclined to say almost always) have their own — for lack of a better term — “theoretical” preoccupations. Even if those are not clear to us, those of us who work in Celtic studies , especially, are likely to be reading theoretical texts whose authors never once considered the bodies of literature in the Celtic languages (if they even knew they existed) — the shift in context will, I suspect, necessarily produce some friction between the “theory” and the “literature”, revealing unnoticed fissures in or omissions from the theory; even the movement between theory and literature within a single dominant language is almost never as smooth as it is sometimes made to seem.
I should, here, briefly address the relationship between “theory” and “politics”. This is a common point of contention where theory is concerned: theory is perceived as “imposing” politics on texts, where, we are to understand, it does not belong. This is perhaps a particularly thorny issue when dealing with “pre-modern” (or even “early modern”) texts, where issues like class, or race, or colonialism, are assumed to be “irrelevant”. I think — hope — that most of the people who might read this will already be in agreement that this is ridiculous, so I won’t belabor the point. I do, however, want to note that I was inspired to start working on this in response to (or, rather, building on) the Harvard Celtic studies department’s statement about the use of “Celtic” symbols and terminology by white supremacist groups:
Harvard Department of Celtic Languages and Literatures affirms the evidence-based consensus that ‘Celtic’ is a linguistic category describing a group of languages both ancient and modern. By extension, the term may refer to oral traditions and literatures in those languages, and to other cultural formations closely associated with those languages. There is no essential genetic ‘Celtic’ identity, nor is any ethnicity or group of ethnicities entitled to a privileged position within the field. Certain symbols associated with medieval Ireland and loosely identified as ‘Celtic’ have been appropriated by groups asserting the supremacy of persons with white skin. We repudiate this appropriation in the strongest possible terms.
We are committed in our teaching and research to dispelling the notion that responsible Celtic studies can in any way privilege or essentialize whiteness. We offer a warm welcome to anyone, regardless of skin color, country of origin, religion, sexual orientation, gender identity, or any other aspect of identity, who is interested in the Celtic languages and their literatures.
Part of the importance of “political” or politically-inflected theory for Celtic studies, I want to suggest, is as a tool for considering the relationship between the literary texts we work on and their reception, which, given the politically and culturally fraught nature of the “Celtic” descriptor, is always going to be contested. We should note, too, that this applies just as much to modern texts as to premodern ones — I am thinking here, for example, of Naomi Gessesse’s comments on the treatment of race in Iain Mac a’ Ghobhainn’s short story “An Duine Dubh”, a commonly taught modern Gaelic text. To that end, I’ll be drawing particular attention to work on race and colonialism as I continue with this project.
At the same time, I want to emphasize that literary criticism in and of itself, while it may be politically oriented or enact a certain kind of politics, is not the same as political action — or, at least, it is not political in the same sense that participating in a protest (or a “riot”, or a rising, or a revolution), or mutual aid work, or political organizing is. This is something that many English-language critics — and many English-language theorists — often lose track of: our work within the academy is of (structurally, necessarily) limited scope and impact. This is not, however, to say that it is without value, or that we should forgo politics altogether: as the context from which the statement above emerges reminds us, that is not option — it never has been, but in this moment we can’t even pretend that it is. But the ways in which and extent to which our work directly responds to and engages in politics will vary depending on precisely what we work on, who our audience is (as Barbara Christian points out), and what we’re writing or teaching.
I should note here the limits of my background and my own idiosyncrasies. While my background in theory is wide-ranging, it’s stronger in some areas than others, whether because certain things in the broad field of theory were “missed” over the course of my education (Russian formalism, for example, which I have had almost no exposure to) or because I personally don’t like them (psychoanalysis, for example, which I’ve read more of than I would like and of which I will recommend almost nothing). As such, as a rule neither my discussions of particular bodies of theory nor my suggested reading lists should be taken as anything more than starting points. They are, necessarily, partial, in both senses.
Additionally, due in part to the limited availability of academic reading materials in the Celtic languages both in general in North America and (given library closures) at this particular moment, I can’t speak directly to the large volumes of critical and theoretical work done in modern Welsh and Irish, although I will try to refer to the small number of things that I have read, where appropriate. Aside from the Celtic languages, I read theory in English, French, Spanish, and occasionally Italian; I have also read some theory originally written in German (mostly in English translation; I’m about 20% of the way through Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations in German at the moment, but it’s slow going even with the facing page translation). Absent either completely or nearly completely are texts from other European languages (especially Russian and Czech) and texts from non-European languages. All of this is to emphasize further that none of my recommendations should be taken as in any way comprehensive.
Finally, if (when) in the future I bring literary examples into these posts, they are likely to be mostly from modern and contemporary Gaelic literature. This is reflective of the limits of my own knowledge; I’m working on reading more modern Welsh and Irish literature, as well, and I hope to bring them into the conversation here, but I’m simply not sufficiently versed in the contexts of the premodern or early modern “Celtic world” (or its languages) to be comfortable commenting extensively on these texts. If I can, however, I’ll do my best to — at least — gesture towards the relevance of theoretical issues to texts from multiple time periods, and to point to relevant theoretical and critical work by scholars of premodern and early modern literatures in other languages. These may, however, be texts I haven’t personally read — if that’s the case, I’ll note it explicitly.
With all of that being said, I want to start by offering a very few starting points. These texts are not an unproblematic list: for starters, it’s almost entirely composed of men. My goal here is to highlight a handful of texts that are either foundational (Barthes), usefully introductory (Williams, Culler, Delany), or, in the case of Barbara Christian, offer a salutary reminder of the contexts in which critics and texts are operating and the political dimensions of literary criticism at a level beyond (but also encompassing) how we analyze individual works.
If — and this holds for any of the texts I suggest in the future, too — you’re having trouble finding any of these, feel free to send me a message on twitter (@natgharr) and I’ll see what I can do to help.
These are far from the only texts one could start with, and they’re not a perfect selection, but I think they’re a decent one.
[1] I borrow Jonathan Culler’s working definition/description of “theory”, which I think is useful because it conveys the (sometimes overwhelming) breadth of what people in literary studies mean by “theory”:
writings from outside the field of literary studies have been taken up by people in literary studies because their analyses of language, or mind, or history, or culture, offer new and persuasive accounts of textual and cultural matters. Theory in this sense is not a set of methods for literary study but an unbounded group of writings about everything under the sun, from the most technical problems of academic philosophy to the changing ways in which people have talked about and thought about the body. The genre of ‘theory’ includes works of anthropology, art history, film studies, gender studies, linguistics, philosophy, political theory, film studies, gender studies, linguistics, philosophy, political theory, psychoanalysis, science studies, social and intellectual history, and sociology. The works in question are tied to arguments in these fields, but they become ‘theory’ because their visions or arguments have been suggestive or productive for people who are not studying these disciplines. (1997, 3-4)
One weakness of Culler’s definition is its assumption that “theory” is exclusively a matter of academia; as Katie King has argued, there is an elision at work here, a shift in the understanding of theory “from an activity possibly (though not without exception) embodied in many written genres to a genre of writing itself”, i.e., “the rationalist essay” (1990, 88). She elaborates:
An error feminists make over and over is to mistake the part of a particular theoretical reading, especially a published reading, for the whole of the many forms theorizing takes: active thinking, speaking, conversation, action grounded in theory, action producing theory, action suggesting theory, drafts, letters, unpublished manuscripts, stories in writing and not, poems said and written, art events like shows, readings, enactments, zap actions such as ACT UP does: or for that matter, incomplete theorizing, sporadic suggestiveness, generalizations correct and incorrect, inadequate theory, images and actions inciting theoretical interventions, and so on. It’s not that all human actions are equivalent to theorizing, but rather that a particular product of many forms of theorizing should not be mistaken for the processes of production themselves. Theorizing can find its embodiment in a variety of forms, written or not, published or not, academic or not, individual or not. (1990, 89)
I will generally, by default, take “theory” in this series in the “rationalist essay” sense — but I want to emphasize that while the rationalist essay is one space where theory is produced and articulated with a particular kind of clarity, it is not the only one. I would strongly argue, for example, that many, if not most, literary texts have, at the very least, some central theoretical concern(s); I don’t think we can (or should) read literary texts only as theory, but to ignore their theoretical dimension is to do them a disservice. [back]
[2] I don’t know what the field of Breton literary criticism looks like, so I can’t comment on the status of theory in it; Manx and Cornish I bracket because the fields of modern literary criticism on and in the languages are so small — partly because their modern literatures are so small — that I’m not sure they exist (I would love to see examples of them if they do!). [back]
[3] I have my own hesitations about the relationship between “theory” as such and the study of Celtic-language literatures; hopefully some of them will be available for you to read in detail in the future (provided you read Gaelic; they may also come up here). In the intervening time, my main point of contention is that the overwhelming majority of texts that fall under the aegis of “theory” are formulated in dominant languages (especially English, French, and German) and in relation to canonical texts, primarily from the late-18th to early-20th centuries, produced in those languages (also, as a side note, almost all in a realist or realistic mode, even when the texts in question are Romantic or high modernist). Temporal or linguistic deviations from this are primarily confined to canonical texts of the “Western tradition”, which of course means exclusively texts produced in dominant languages, plus the odd text in smaller (but still locally dominant) European national languages. A question I have asked before and intend to consider at greater length in the future is: what would formalism, or any of the various strands of poststructuralism, or even New Criticism, ⁊c., look like if formulated through and in relation to modern Irish, or Manx, or, for that matter, Middle Welsh? [back]
[4] It is worth noting, on the subject of “received understandings” that the common understanding of “theory” — even, I should note, within many areas of literary study that embrace theory as such — is often extremely restricted: theory is European, American, and perhaps postcolonial; theory is produced in dominant colonial languages; theory begins in the 20th century; ⁊c. In fact, however, people have been producing literary theory, and other texts that we would read as “theoretical” today, for literally millennia, all around the world; by the same token, despite the occasionally hagiographic tendencies — sometimes ironically or self-consciously so — of many discussions and presentations of theory, focused around a few big names, mainly French, people didn’t stop producing theory, engaging with theory, or integrating theory into their critical work after the 1980s. Much of my focus in this series will be on contemporary theoretical work. [back]
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