Amovement from modes of production to those of communication, which marks the historical anthropology of Jack Goody was, of course, also one of the central themes of the work of Raymond Williams. The parallels in the development of an original cultural materialism in the two bodies of writing are not a mere coincidence. For both thinkers started out under the joint influence of Leavis and the Marxism of the anti-fascist moment. Politically, it was perhaps the tension of this background which kept them from rejoining the ranks of British Communism after the war. Intellectually, it seems likely that it provided much of the impulse behind the eventual syntheses at which each arrived—whose affinities can be seen in their collaboration in a collective project on human communication.footnote58 Logically enough, literary criticism had been the other refuge of the idea of a social totality within English culture, at a time when it was virtually everywhere else repressed. By 1968 it was already clear that this was the area from which had emerged—with The Long Revolution—a socialist theory able to measure itself against the overall forms of life in capitalist Britain. The next twenty years saw Raymond Williams become not only the most distinctive political thinker of the British Left, but the central figure in literary studies in the country at large. There is a paradox in any such description, because the whole force of Williams’s work in this period was eventually to undo the very notion of ‘literature’ as a separate kind of writing. Literary criticism itself, in the traditional sense, formed in many ways the smallest part of his output: of his books after Drama from Ibsen to Brecht (1968), only The English Novel from Dickens to Lawrence (1970) really fits the term, though particular essays approximate it.

The work of the ‘break’, with all current critical forms, was The Country and the City (1973), which remains Williams’s masterpiece: a study of the changing representations of rural and urban life in English writing since the Jacobean period—and of the social transformations they refracted or hid—which is also an unforgettable critique of agrarian nostalgia and industrial hubris alike. There followed a pioneering study of the interplay between technology and cultural form in television, drawn in good part from American experience, and the first critical exercise of historical semantics in English, a field largely unexplored outside Germany.footnote59 Marxism and Literature (1977), in more ways than one marking a significant radicalization, sketched out a systematic theoretical agenda for future work intended to subvert the orthodoxies of both the traditions from which Williams had begun. Rejecting the distinction between base and super structure—not on the usual grounds that the ideal sphere of the latter was indefensibly reduced to its material supports, but rather because if anything the former was wrongly narrowed and abstracted by the exclusion from it of the forces of cultural production—Williams taxed Marxism with too little, rather than too much, materialism. But in the same movement he also repudiated the distinction between a separate category of literary texts and other practices of writing—the very notion of a canon, central to Leavisite criticism—for captious selection and unselfconscious elitism. In its stead he argued for a democracy of signifying practices, each calling for its own appropriate responses, in a process dissolving aesthetic judgements into a tracing out of the conditions of production of any given piece of writing, and then of its reception by the current reader. Such deliberate, unfussed historical levelling recalls Gramsci, and it is perhaps no accident that Williams should here have taken over his notion of hegemony. But he gave it a characteristic twist, by emphasizing the continual processes of adjustment needed to secure any political or cultural hegemony above, and its perpetual failure—as an inherently selective definition of reality—to exhaust the meanings of popular experience below. These themes, providing the programme of such later collections as Writing in Society (1984), and finding fresh development in Culture (1985), effectively set many of the terms of the cross-disciplinary growth of ‘cultural studies’—abjuring ‘literary criticism’—in these years, of which the work of the Birmingham Centre became the most influential example. Although Williams was not the only source of this shift, he was the outstanding individual one, the extent of his impact being visible in the general direction of the change. For the rest, the magnitude of his legacy—from the fictional to the political—exceeds the bounds of any sectoral survey such as this.

In a clear if complicated sense, Terry Eagleton has been the principal successor in the professional field they both occupied. From Williams’s ‘Second Generation’, his intellectual background was very different: left Catholic and existentialist at the outset, the student upheavals of the sixties brought him to Marxism, and a strong appropriation of Louis Althusser. After sharp studies of Waugh and Green in Exiles and Emigrés (1970), he published a vigorous attack on every prevailing form of liberal humanism in English literary studies in Criticism and Ideology (1976). Inspired by the structuralist ferment within the French Marxism of the time, this polemic took among its prime targets Scrutiny and the work of Williams himself, treated as recalcitrantly petty-bourgeois and attractively socialist variants of the pursuit of humane literary values—where what was really needed was scientific investigation of the several ideologies at work in any given text. This swashbuckling objectivism dissolved through the encounter with Walter Benjamin which was the occasion of Eagleton’s next work. An effervescent cocktail of different forms, Walter Benjamin or Towards a Revolutionary Criticism (1981) offered a set of variations on its subject’s philosophy of history, theory of baroque drama, ideas of artistic aura and reproduction, and last but not least, revolutionary politics, in which a distinctive strain of plumpes Denken was crossed with the first signs of post-structuralism.

In the previous ten years, the once sheltered world of English literary criticism had been lapped by successive waves of theory from Russia, Bohemia, Germany, France, the United States. The result was considerable disorientation among new entrants to the discipline. With Literary Theory (1983), Eagleton took the opportunity to chart this unfamiliar scene. Beginning with the heritage of Arnold, Eliot and Leavis, it looked pithily and entertainingly at the New Criticism and Northrop Frye, Husserl and Heidegger, Lévi-Strauss and Barthes, Bakhtin and Derrida, Bloom and Kristeva, among others. Calculated to dispel any neophyte dizziness amidst this carousel of schools, by plain-spoken exposition, Eagleton’s survey also had decided messages of its own. With small time for the nostalgias of New Criticism, the essentialism of phenomenology, or the technocracy of Frye, it struck a more lenient note with Prague structuralism, and a noticeably warmer one—with due qualifications—about post-structuralist and psychoanalytic trends, at any rate as exhibited by Derrida and Kristeva, viewed as welcome relays to feminist concerns. The overall argument of the book, however, converged with that of Williams. Literature as such was an illusion: it was that segment of writing socially valued at any given time—such valuations being always imbued with the dominant relations of ideology and power. Literary criticism, or theory, was therefore no more than a branch of such ideologies, without unity or identity, to be buried unceremoniously.footnote60 What was required instead was a cultural theory equivalent to the older science of rhetoric—that is, a typology of the different forms and functions of signifying practices at large. Liberated from any canonical incubus, such a rhetoric could then freely mine every available methodological resource for particular ends, in the general service of a socialism giving substance to the liberal ideals of human betterment.

This obsequy for literary criticism left one ambiguity unresolved. Was it just literature that had been laid to rest, or the critical attitude as well? Williams had repudiated the very term criticism, as too contaminated by invidious judgement. But the strict logic of this position undermines the very politics it is designed to advance: for if texts are not to be criticized, on what grounds can societies? Eagleton’s solution was to retain the term, but reposition it—shifting it from the terrain of the aesthetic to the experiential and symbolic. The Function of Criticism (1984) pursued this strategy by reconstructing the actual history of the idea and the practice of criticism, from the Enlightenment onwards. Born in Europe of the struggle against Absolutism, criticism flowered in England after the battle was won, as a meliorating consolidation of the class compromise achieved at the Glorious Revolution. Addison and Steele wrote as counsellors to a polite public in matters not just of books or plays, but manners and morals, as critics of everyday life as much as of the higher arts. That capacious, unforced sense of the continuity of social living, together with the ambition to educate and improve it, rested on the unity of what Habermas classically depicted as the new bourgeois world of the time—the eighteenth-century public sphere of newspapers and coffee houses, clubs and circulating libraries. By the early nineteenth century, this consensus had broken down, under the opposite pressures of commercial publishing and popular politics, producing a vehemently factional journal culture on the one hand, and the lonely voice of the romantic poet or moral sage on the other. The growth of a working-class readership saw a further disintegration of the public sphere into a received polarity between the educated elite and semi-literate mass. The meaning of criticism now became redefined. For Arnold it was the uplift of great works of literature alone that could redeem the lower orders. This conception of literary value passed down to Leavis, who attempted to reconcile Augustan and Romantic stances by emphasizing both the sociability of literature and the arduousness of understanding it—in opposition to either academic isolation, or amateur appreciation of its abiding tradition. In fact, Scrutiny merely became one more embattled minority. Its failure paved the way for ever more technical conceptions of criticism as a professional discipline without civilizing pretensions. Their sway was in due course overthrown by the vocally anti-objectivist ‘literary theory’ of the most recent period. Yet this too is only another avatar of the shrinking of the critical project itself. Latter-day criticism, Eagleton concluded, serves no wider interest than itself. Williams’s greatness was to escape its horizons, in a radical and unclassifiable oeuvre. But this work was in effect addressed to a counter-public that was missing—a politically organized, class readership, such as had once existed in Weimar Germany or Britain in the thirties. In the eighties, under the stifling weight of the mass media, feminism has come nearest to creating such an alternative public sphere. Although quite distinct in character from the rationalist school of the Enlightenment, it is this cultural space which points best to what ought to be the aim of contemporary criticism—to recover the original unity of its practice. Today, that means reconnecting the symbolic processes and shapings of subjectivity in social life to the unfinished political struggle for equality and emancipation.