One of the things that Stephen King detests (or at least detested back in the seventies) was academic literary criticism. Perhaps you’re more normal than King or I, but if you read such things you find yourself immediately sucked into a world where the writer seems determined to demonstrate their erudition by splicing together words that shouldn’t really sleep together and then throws theory at you until you fall off the cliff. It can be a frustrating experience for the reader, even as the writer is granted tenure for it. One of these days I’ll learn my lesson. Buying books by academics is dicey prospect. I’m drawn in by the ideas, and the early pages, then I’m soon in the deep end remembering that I never learned to swim.
Is it really fair, I wonder, to begin a book—the first one or two pages impossibly engaging—then start winging ponderous, theory-laden words at the reader? Your publisher paid for an attractive, inviting design and the reader, lured like a child to a candy store, thinks this will be sweet. Then the sugar coating wears off and you’re faced with another 253 pages of clawing at words you recognize, hoping to make some sense out of what seemed, and still is, an engaging idea. This has happened to me multiple times. I live between worlds. Even when I was an academic, however, I eschewed theory-heavy language. I had nothing to prove, other than the point of my article. And to prove a point, it seemed to me, people have to understand what you’re trying to say.
Higher education is in crisis mode. Among the various fields you can study, the humanities are under especial scrutiny. Have you read a book by an English professor lately (present company excepted!)? Although their title is “English” you can be left wondering what language it actually is that they’re writing. And they are capable of plain speaking. Those first two pages demonstrate that. They are capable, but are they willing? I begin to understand Mr. King’s reservations. I’ve run into books even in the field in which I have a doctorate that I can’t understand. I find myself tentatively cracking open the Oxford English Dictionary to see if perhaps I’ve misunderstood the connotations of that word for my entire life. I don’t mind a challenging read now and again. At the same time, I mourn the loss of something beautiful when I can’t make out what the author seems to be saying. Perhaps such books should come with warning labels. I suspect Stephen King would have a good turn of phrase for what such a label should say.
