"What unites and repeatedly invigorates feminist literary criticism, then, is neither dogma nor method but [ . . . ] an acute and impassioned attentiveness to the ways in which primarily male structures of power are inscribed (or encoded) within our literary inheritance; the consequences of that encoding for women -- as characters, as readers, and as writers; and, with that, a shared analytic concern for the implications of that encoding not only for a better understanding of the past, but also for an improved reordering of the present and future as well."
— Annette Kolodny, "Dancing Through the Minefield" (1397-1398)
Critical Assumptions
Here are some of the basic premises of feminist literary criticism:
· All literature, like all culture, dramatizes implicitly or explicitly the difference between the masculine and the feminine.
· Alll literature, like all history, records the struggle of women and men with the social forces of patriarchy.
· Criticism functions, as does reading itself, to facilitate the awakening of human consciousness to the gender-delimiting elements of human experience.
The application of these assumptions generally results in one of the three feminist approaches:
The Socio-Political Approach of
what is sometimes termed the British school of feminist criticism
focuses on a neo-Marxist exposé of the patriarchy as reflected in the
delimited lives and destinies of female characters in literature. This
type of critical discourse often takes an explicitly and aggressively
ideological stance, stressing the important contribution of literature
and literary criticism to a radical, even revolutionary reformation of
culture.
The Socio-Psychological Approach
of the so-called American school of feminist criticism focuses on
exploring the awakening feminine consciousness reflected in literature
by and about women. Through close textual analysis, this critical
approach has often stressed a psychological maturation not only through
a recognition of gender difference but also through a growing sense of
"sisterhood" with other women. One strategy toward this end
has been the recovery or rediscovery of previously overlooked or
suppressed female writers and texts.
The Fe(Male) Approach of the
French school of feminist criticism has stressed the subtle but
essential participation of language in the patriarchal forces of
society. This critical approach often draws upon the linguistic concepts
of structuralism and post-structuralism. Some practitioners of this
critical method also focus on defining the distinguishing qualities of L'ecriture
féminine (women's writing).
Elaine Showalter offers a slightly different three part history of feminist literary criticism. Showalter identifies three stages: We might also characterize
1. The feminist critique of patriarchal culture—reading the representation of women to expose the explicit or implicit misogyny in male writing about women; also presenting the very different ways women read both male and female writers.
2. Canon-formation—analyzing and reforming the representation of women writers in the literary canon (or proposing counter-canons); female traditions.
3. Gynocritics—studying how women write to understand a gender basis for textuality; a search for kinds of writing that are based in gender and female culture.
Showalter also offers a three-stage history of feminism:
1. The Feminine Stage (1840-1880): women wrote in an effort to equal the intellectual achievements of the male culture; the distinguishing sign of the period is the pseudonym.
2. The Feminist Stage (1880-1920): women are historically enabled to reject the accommodating postures of femininity and to use literature to dramatize the ordeals of wronged womanhood.
3. The Female Stage (1920-present): women reject both imitation and protest and turn instead to female experience as the source of an autonomous art, extending feminist analysis of culture to the forms and techniques of literature.
by
Felicia Hemans (1793-1835)
from The Poetical Works of Felicia Hemans (Philadelphia: Grigg &
Elliot, 1839), pp. 139-140.
“This governor, who had braved death when it was at
a distance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive
Carthage, this fierce Asdrubal, was so mean-spirited, as to come alone,
and privately throw himself at the conqueror’s feet. The general,
pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to
grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood
that their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the
gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa, The Romans had now no
enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced
to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second
citadel within the first: there the proconsul attacked them; and these
unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the
temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one part to another,
till they got to the roof of the building: there Asdrubal’s wife
appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of
triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her
husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus,—‘Base coward!’
said she, ‘the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not
avail thee; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.’
Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while
they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple,
and leaped down after them into the flames.”—Ancient Universal
History.
The
sun sets brightly—but a ruddier glow
O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw;
Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire
In lurid splendor from her domes aspire;
Swayed by the wind, they wave—while glares the sky
As when the desert’s red Simoom is nigh:
The sculptured altar, and the pillared hall,
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall;
Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams,
Rock, wave, and isle are crimsoned by its beams;
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains,
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes;
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around,
Swell from the victor’s tents with ivy crowned1
But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight,
All regal in magnificent attire,
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire?
She might be deemed a Pythia in the hour
Of dread communion and delirious power;
A being more than earthly, in whose eye
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendancy.
The flames are gathering round—intensely bright,
Full on her features glares their meteor-light,
But a wild courage sits triumphant there,
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair;
A daring spirit, in its woes elate,
Mightier than death, untameable by fate.
The dark profusion of her locks unbound,
Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round;
Flushed is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien,
She seems th’ avenging goddess of the scene.
Are
those her infants, that with suppliant cry
Cling round her, shrinking as the flame draws nigh,
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest,
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast?
Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain,
And passion awfully vindictive, reign?
Fixed
is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands,
Ignobly safe, amidst the conquering bands;
On him, who left her to that burning tomb,
Alone to share her children’s martyrdom;
Who when his country perished, fled the strife,
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life.
“Live, traitor, live!” she cries, “since dear to thee,
E’en in thy fetters can existence be!
Scorned and dishonored live!—with blasted name,
The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame.
O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain!
Still may the manes of thy children rise
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes.
Still may their voices on the haunted air
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair,
Till vain remorse thy withered heart consume,
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb!
E’en now my sons shall die—and thou, their sire,
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire.
Think’st thou I love them not?—’Twas thine to fly—
’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die.
Behold their fate!—the arms that can not save
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.”
Bright
in her hand the lifted dagger gleams,
Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams;
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest;
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high,
Then deep ’midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.
Note
1.
It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy.