Autobigraphical Criticism

Criticism is, traditionally, a genre of detachment. A critic writes in a detached, lofty voice, voicing opinions and delineating views that may be subjective but nonetheless have been objectively weighed. A critic can be warm-hearted, and her language also warming, but her thinking needs to be cold and crisp, like apples under water. In criticism, there is little room for I, the warm human being. I only stands for the cold, typing fingers and the eyes the eye the margins. No brains there, nor hearts. Detachment means also concealment. To maintain a detached stance, one needs to straighten one's back against gravity and disregard life's many distractions, mundane and extraordinary - the itching scalp, bad lunch, the earthquake in Sumatra, one's cat who died. WHAT TO DO.

Autobiographical criticism aims to say good-bye, farewell, Adiós, to detachment. After all, a critic is a critic because he longs for connections. He exists to make connections, to play with them. Why stay detached? Or, more precisely, why write in a detached language? Let it be noted, though, that the opposite of detachment, which is engagement, here does not equal the French engagement, where the writer must align the writing to political or social ends. The autobiographical critical engagement, by contrast, simply points to more honest forms of thinking and writing. Why the pretense of detachment, now, when still more wars are being waged, sea levels are constantly rising, and equally importantly, you and I are alive? You are alive, I am alive. How stupendous - I kid you not. Why stay detached from the nooks and crannies of life, that is much larger and heavier and messier than the, at-the-end-of-the-day, much flimsier criticism, or say, art?

The attitude of the autobiographical critic is much closer in appearance and in substance to that of a poet or a fiction writer, or a bard. The mission is to express, to engage. What use if the audience turn away in boredom, incomprehension, or disgust? Some of them may, but it is only natural to hope that the number remains small.

So, you may ask, where is the "I" in this little blog entry? Well, I must say I can't find it anywhere, except where it says, "I am alive." Isn't this enough? And let it be known that not every autobiography needs to place "I" in the center. After all, or, at least for me personally, "I" is always being displaced, replaced, and even misplaced. Please! Let writing please the soul, one last time.

And the lofty language - allow me to confess that that is the direct influence of Vladimir Nabokov's loftiest language of all time in his autobiography, titled Speak, Memory. I have been reading the book, with a wry mixture of repulsion and fascination on my living, moving face.